THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Kenneth  MacKenna 


v/1        SOUTI 


ovuv 


| 

j  ^a 


K-Z 


<:>         «* 


This  edition,  printed  on  Old  Stratford 
paper,  is  limited  to  one  hundred  and 
sixty  copies,  signed  by  the  Author. 


THE 
MELANCHOLY  TALE  OF  "ME" 

MY    REMEMBRANCES 


THE  MELANCHOLY 
TALE  OF  "ME" 

MY  REMEMBRANCES 


BY 

EDWARD    H.   SOTHERN 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,  igi6,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  September,  igxO 


College 


THE  MELANCHOLY  TALE  OF  "ME" 

DEDICATED   TO 

LUCY  DERBY  FULLER 

AS    THE     "ONLIE     BEGETTER"    OF    THESE     STORIES 

BY 
EDWARD   H.    SOTHERN 


PREFACE 

WHEN  I  was  young,  I  had  a  little  friend;  and 
one  day,  when  other  little  friends  were  invited  to  a 
festivity,  I  said:  "Look  here!  You  hide  behind 
this  curtain,  and  then  nobody  will  know  where  you 


are." 


"But,"  said  my  little  friend,  "nobody  cares!" 
The  pitiful  experience  indicated  by  this  remark 
has  remained  with  me,  and  I  have  frequently  thought 
that  when  we  are  prepared  to  jump  out  from  behind 
our  curtain  and  surprise  people  with  our  opinions, 
we  should  be  warned  by  my  small  friend's  pathetic 
conclusion. 

However,  we  never  profit  by  other  people's  ex- 
perience, so  here  I  am. 


CONTENTS 


PACE 


DEDICATION v 

PREFACE vii 

PART  I— "ME" 

THE  FAIRY  GODMOTHER 3 

THE  JAM-FACED  BOY 10 

"GOING  NOWHERE" 14 

SORRY  WHEN  DEAD 25 

FINE  FEATHERS 32 

"TA" 43 

PRIVATE  AND  UNEXPECTED 52 

"RASHER" 59 

"THE  Music  OF  THE  SPHERES" 65 

AMONG  THE  GODS 75 

"THE  BLESSEDS" 85 

UNCLE  CHARLEY 94 

A  "DAWDLER" 101 

be 


x  CONTENTS 

PART  II— HUGH 

MM 

HUGH in 

FORWARD! 122 

"RUFFIAN  DICK" 135 

PART  III— MY  FATHER 

ISHERWOOD 147 

THE  COCKED  HAT 161 

LORD  DUNDREARY 171 

ALL  MIRTH  AND  No  MATTER 182 

No  SONG,  No  SUPPER 191 

"THE  CRUSHED  TRAGEDIAN" 199 

PART  IV— MYSELF 

MONSIEUR  LA  TAPPY 209 

I  CHOOSE  A  PROFESSION 216 

"SAINT  VINCENT" 229 

JOHN  McCuLLoucH 248 

THE  NEAR  FUTURE^ 260 

RHYME  AND  TIME 268 

MRS.  MABBITT 278 

WHY! 285 


CONTENTS  xi 


MOB 


THE  OLD  LYCEUM  THEATRE 292 

"MRS.  MIDGET" 303 

"FLOCK" 314 

"LETTARBLAIR" 322 

MEADOW-LARKS  AND  GIANTS'  ROBES     .     .     .     .331 

"Mr  OWN  SHALL  COME  TO  ME" 339 

THE  EMPTY  CHAIR 351 

"THE  BEAUTIFUL  ADVENTURE" 358 

SANCTUARY 368 

I  TALK  TO  MYSELF 375 

UP  THE  CHIMNEY 400 

INDEX 403 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Edward  H.  Sothern Frontispiece 

"Me,"  aged  two  years Facing  page  3 

Edward  H.  Sothern,  aged  fifteen  years  "  6 

Uncle  Hugh  and  his  dog "  18 

Mother  of  Edward  H.  Sothern "  30 

Mother  with  "Me"  in  her  arms      ....  "  36 

"Ta,"  Sam  Sothern,  aged  two  years     ...  "  44 

Sam  Sothern,  aged  seven  years 44 

Lytton  Sothern,  aged  nineteen  years    ...  "  48 

"The  Cedars,"  London "  50 

Edward  A.  Sothern  in  1863 "  54 

Edward  H.  Sothern,  aged  nine  years    ...  "  80 

"The  Blesseds"  at  Ramsgate "  86 

Joe  Jefferson "  92 

John  T.  Raymond "  92 

Dunchurch,  near  Rugby "  96 

Facsimile  of  part  of  the  official  record  of  Uncle 

Hugh Page  117 

Uncle  Hugh  in  Alexandria,  Egypt  .      .     .       Facing  page  124 


xm 


xiv  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Lineage  of  Uncle  Hugh Facing  page     128 

The  set  of  pictures  (Sir  Richard  Burton)  from 

Uncle  Hugh's  room "  136 

Programmes  of  Sothern's  Lyceum  ....         "  148 

Facsimile  of  part  of  advertisement  in  New 
York  Herald,  October  18,  1858,  announc- 
ing the  first  production  of  "Our  American 
Cousin" Page  172 

Programme  Laura  Keene's  Theatre,  Novem- 
ber 22,  1858 Facing  page  172 

E.  A.  Sothern  as  Lord  Dundreary,  1858    .     .  174 

Edward  A.   Sothern   as  Lord    Dundreary   in      . 

"Our  American  Cousin" 176 

Facsimile  of  part  of  a  page  in  E.  A.  Sothern's 
scrap-book  noting  the  birth  of  his  son, 
Edward  H.  Sothern 178 

E.  A.  Sothern  as  the  Kinchin  in  "The  Flowers 

of  the  Forest" 180 

Edward  A.  Sothern  about  1875       ....  184 

Laura  Keene  as  Florence  Trenchard     ...  188 

Edward  A.  Sothern  as  David  Garrick  ...  192 

E.  A.  Sothern  as  The  Crushed  Tragedian  .     .  202 

Drawing  by  E.  H.  Sothern  of  figure  in  the 

Laocoon  group 210 

Oil  sketch  made  by  E.  H.  Sothern  in  Spain    .  210 

Programme  Park  Theatre,  September  8,  1879  226 

Programme    Boston   Museum,    December   8, 

1879 226 

William  Warren "  230 


ILLUSTRATIONS  xv 

Programme  National  Theatre,   Boston,   No- 
vember i,  1852 Facing  page    232 

Programme  Howard  Athenaeum,  Boston,  De- 
cember 8,  1852 "             232 

Edward  H.  Sothern  in  1879 "             236 

"St.  Vincent"  (Mrs.  R.  H.  Vincent)    ...  "             240 

John  McCullough "             252 

C.  W.  Couldock "             264 

Daniel  Frohman  about  1891 "             264 

Edward  H.  Sothern,  1884 "             270 

Richard  Mansfield,  1883 "             270 

Sam  Sothern,  1916 "             286 

E.  H.  Sothern  as  Jack  Hammerton  in  "The 

Highest  Bidder" "             296 

Facsimile  of  pages  from  souvenir  programme 

of  "The  Highest  Bidder" "             298 

Eugene  B.  Sanger,  messenger  boy  ....  "             300 

Belle    Archer,    Maude    Adams,    and    E.    H. 

Sothern  in  "Lord  Chumley"    ....  308 

"Flock."     Charles  P.  Flockton  in  costume  in 

"Change  Alley" 316 

E.  H.  Sothern  in  the  horse-auction  scene — 

Captain  Lettarblair "             326 

E.  H.  Sothern  as  Captain  Lettarblair  Litton  .  "             326 

Edwin  Booth "             334 


xvi  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Courtyard  of  house  in  New  Orleans  where 
Edward  H.  Sothern  was  born,  December 
6,  1859 Facing  page  348 

Captain  John  Shackford "  352 

Charles  Frohman "  360 

Edward  A.  Sothern  and  party  on  a  fishing  trip, 

Rangeley  Lakes,  Maine "  370 

Henry  M.  Rogers "  372 

William  J.  Florence "  372 


Facsimile   of  the   play-bill  of  the  National 

Theatre,  Boston,  November  I,  1852  .     .  At  end  of  volume 


PART  I 

"ME" 


"ME,"    AGED    TWO    YEARS 


I 

THE  FAIRY  GODMOTHER 

MOST  authorities  agree  that  fairy  godmothers  come 
down  chimneys.  It  is  pretty  well  established  also  that 
their  chief  vehicle  of  locomotion  is  a  broomstick.  "Me," 
however,  will  assure  you  that,  in  his  own  particular  case, 
neither  of  these  statements  is  correct.  "Me"  possesses 
a  fairy  godmother  who  has  never  approached  him  by 
the  chimney  route,  and  who  has  ever  practised  the 
ordinary  means  of  transportation,  although  he  shrewdly 
suspects  that  in  some  cases  she  has  the  chimney  habit. 
When  "Me"  was  a  child  his  ambition  was  to  be  a  hermit. 
He  had  seen  a  picture  of  Saint  Somebody  living  in  a 
nice,  comfortable  cave,  with  a  large  loaf  of  bread  and 
a  pitcher  of  water,  a  lot  of  books  and  a  skull.  All  of 
these  things  appealed  strongly  to  "Me."  Home-made 
bread  he  could  devour  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  food; 
books  he  was  exceedingly  fond  of  and  early  made  them 
his  best  friends,  and  the  skull  fascinated  him.  This 
temple  of  thought  "Me"  quite  longed  to  possess,  to 
contemplate  it,  to  commune  with  it  in  solitude.  You 
will  gather  that  "Me"  was  a  somewhat  unusual  child. 
This,  I  think,  was  the  case.  "Me's"  head  was  very  large 
and  his  eyes  were  like  saucers — "Goggles"  he  was  called 
the  moment  he  went  to  school,  and  "Goggles"  he  re- 
mained until  he  grew  large  enough  for  his  eyes  not  to  be 
so  noticeable. 

I 


4  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Me's"  first  clear  recollection  is  that  of  being  held 
up  to  look  at  the  Atlantic  Ocean  through  the  port-hole 
of  a  steamer  bound  for  England,  and  of  breaking  out 
into  screams  of  terror  at  finding,  on  taking  his  eyes  off 
the  great  waves,  that  he  was  looking  into  the  face  of 
a  black  woman.  This  is  now  merely  the  remembrance 
of  a  remembrance,  but  there  is  a  great  distinctness  about 
it  all  the  same.  "Me"  recalls  being  rescued  from  the 
black  nurse's  arms  and  put  to  bed,  and  here  he  per- 
ceives for  the  first  time  a  sweet,  gentle,  white  face  which 
has  watched  over  him  ever  since. 

"Me's"  next  remembrance  is  of  being  taught  some 
prayers  and  of  being  greatly  interested  in  the  pictures 
conjured  up  thereby.  Next,  like  a  flash,  comes  the 
scene  of  a  large  hall  in  a  country  house,  and  the  arrival 
of  a  man  from  Australia,  who  unpacked  all  kinds  of 
weapons  of  the  aborigines — shields,  spears,  head-dresses, 
and  of  seeing  "Me's"  father  and  mother  and  other 
persons  dressed  up  in  these  strange  things,  and  of  much 
laughter,  and  then  a  great  number  of  people  at  a  very 
large  breakfast-table,  and  the  new  man  turning  out  to 
be  an  old,  old  friend  of  "Me's"  father. 

Impressions  come  rapidly  after  this.  Life  became 
interesting  and  kaleidoscopic.  A  great  many  people 
circulated  about  "Me's"  father  and  "Me's"  large  head 
echoed  with  ideas  from  China  to  Peru.  But  "Me" 
preferred  to  be  an  observer  rather  than  an  actor  in  the 
pageant  that  was  opening  before  him,  and  it  was  about 
this  time  that  one  of  his  saucer  eyes  fell  on  the  picture 
of  the  hermit,  and  selected  that  as  his  calling. 

Shortly  "Me"  went  to  school  and  was  plunged  into 
abject  misery.  It  is  true,  the  school  was  not  more  than 
two  hundred  yards  from  his  home;  but  "Me"  would 


THE  FAIRY  GODMOTHER  5 

cast  from  him  thoughts  of  the  alphabet  and,  dropping 
into  his  small  lap,  with  listless  hands,  that  volume  which 
tells  us  that  "A  is  an  archer  who  shot  at  a  frog,"  and 
"B  is  a  butcher  who  had  a  great  dog,"  "Me"  would, 
with  some  effort,  picture  himself,  to  himself,  as  bereft 
by  the  great  Reaper  of  both  his  parents  and  his  nurse, 
and  his  small  brother  and  sister,  and  having  reduced 
himself  to  a  condition  of  orphanage,  friendlessness,  and 
starvation,  "Me"  would,  to  the  consternation  of  his 
pastors  and  masters  and  fellow  pupils,  begin  to  howl  as 
though  his  heart  would  break. 

At  the  end  of  the  term,  Mr.  Snelling,  the  schoolmaster, 
and  Mrs.  Snelling,  his  assistant,  would  chalk  up  on  a 
blackboard  a  "letter  to  parents,"  to  this  effect: 

MY  HONORED  PARENTS:  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Snelling  pre- 
sent their  respectful  compliments,  and  desire  me  to  say 
that  they  are  pleased  with  my  progress  during  the  past 
term.  They  beg  to  inform  you  that  I  stand  second  in 
my  class  (there  were  but  two  in  the  class),  that  I  show  an 
intelligent  interest  in  my  studies,  and  that  the  next  term 
will  begin  on  July  I.  I  remain,  my  dear  parents,  your 
dutiful  and  affectionate  son, 

"ME." 

This  letter  we  copied  with  much  care  and  much  ink, 
and  carried  home  with  us.  Enclosed  was  Mr.  Snelling's 
official  report,  which,  in  "Me's"  case,  invariably  read: 
"Health  good;  conduct  good.  Could  wish  he  would  be 
more  interested  in  his  studies." 

But  I  think  even  then  "Me's"  large  head  rebelled  at 
the  method  of  imparting  information.  His  interest  was 
not  enchained,  nor  his  curiosity  sufficiently  excited;  his 
attention  flagged  and  his  mind  wandered,  and  his  thoughts 


6  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

would  leave  the  dull  schoolroom  and  travel  down  the 
road  to  his  devastated  home,  his  defunct  parents,  his 
interred  nurse,  his  departed  brother  and  sister  and 
Melancholy  claimed  "Me"  for  her  own. 

While  "Me"  was  emerging  from  his  shell  on  one  side 
of  the  Atlantic,  his  fairy  godmother  was  blossoming  into 
girlhood  on  the  other.  "Me's"  father  was  away  a  good 
deal  from  his  own  children.  "The  blesseds"  he  called 
them,  and  he  took  great  interest  in  "the  blesseds"  of 
other  people.  Whenever  he  could  give  pleasure  to  a 
child  he  would  go  out  of  his  way  to  do  so.  I  remember 
on  one  occasion  the  small  son  of  an  old  schoolfellow  of 
his  was  to  have  a  birthday.  It  occurred  to  "Me's" 
father  the  night  before  that  it  would  surprise,  and  please, 
this  little  fellow  if  he  ("Me's"  father)  should  appear  out 
of  a  clear  sky  in  his  bedroom  early  in  the  morning  with 
a  lot  of  birthday  presents.  He  sent  out  at  once  and 
purchased  presents  of  all  kinds.  He  took  a  night  train 
from  London  to  Birmingham.  He  amazed  that  house- 
hold by  appearing  in  their  midst  about  seven  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  He  crawled  into  the  child's  room  on  all 
fours,  and  went  through  strange  and  delightful  antics 
before  he  suddenly  disclosed  himself;  amid  great  glee 
and  clapping  of  small  hands  and  sparkling  of  eyes  did 
he  deliver  his  presents.  Amid  shouts  and  embraces 
did  he  depart  and  take  a  train  back  to  London,  four 
hours  away.  His  "blesseds"  were  ever  in  his  mind's 
eye. 

So  when  he  discovered  "Me's"  fairy  godmother,  then 
a  young  girl,  he  at  once  won  her  heart  by  exhibiting  that 
respect  for  youthful  fancies  that  not  all  grown-up  people 
evince.  One  must  understand  children.  The  fairy  god- 
mother was  a  shy  creature,  as  fairies  are  apt  to  be;  yet 


EDWARD    H.    SOTHERN,    AGED    FIFTEEN    YEARS 


THE  FAIRY  GODMOTHER  7 

she  experienced  a  keen  pleasure  when  attending  the 
theatre  to  watch  "Me's"  parent  act.  That  audacious 
creature  would  stop  in  the  midst  of  a  speech,  look  directly 
at  the  fairy  and  say:  "There's  Miranda,"  which,  of 
course,  was  not  her  name.  It  was  her  real  name  that  he 
used,  however.  Down  would  go  the  fairy's  head  below 
the  level  of  the  box,  conscious  that  the  entire  world  had 
its  eyes  glued  on  her.  How  should  she  ever  show  her 
face  again  ?  There  was,  however,  a  fearful  joy  in  the 
moment.  She  could  hear  "Me's"  father  saying  quite 
loud:  "She  has  disappeared,"  and  again,  "Miranda!" 
At  last  she  would  emerge,  slowly,  very  slowly.  No  one 
was  looking  at  her;  people  had  somehow  thought  the 
interpolated  talk  about  her  was  part  of  the  play.  On 
subsequent  visits  she  underwent  similar  experiences,  and 
again  she  would  suffer  the  exquisite  danger  in  which 
childhood  delights. 

Miranda  grew  to  womanhood,  endowed  with  all  the 
graces  which  fairies  bestow,  and  one  day  when  "Me" 
appeared  within  the  magic  circle,  she  made  it  quite 
clear  to  him  that  here  was  his  fairy  godmother.  "Me," 
who  had  had  doubts  about  many  things,  began  to  see 
them  fade  away.  He  soon  observed  that  Miranda's 
golden  wings  sheltered  others  than  himself.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  smoothing  out  the  lives  of  people  all  about 
her.  Difficulties  disappeared  like  magic  when  Miranda 
lent  a  hand.  She  possessed  a  heart  as  open  as  the  day  to 
kindly  pity;  a  bounty  all-embracing  as  the  sun;  she 
would  wave  her  wand  and  this  one,  perverse  and  inca- 
pable, became  tractable  and  industrious;  again,  and  he 
who  had  no  object  in  life  found  himself  and  proceeded 
apace;  another  who  is  certain  she  possesses  no  talent, 
receives  a  tap  on  the  shoulder,  and  lo !  the  garden  gives 


8  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

forth  golden  fruit.  Pumpkins  become  coaches-and- 
four,  bumpkins  become  princes,  while  mice  become 
prancing  steeds.  "Me"  as  he  ambled  along  the  road 
of  life  got  to  think,  as  the  days  passed,  as  he  met  each 
new  adventure:  "What  would  Miranda  think  of  this?" 
"I  wonder  if  Miranda  would  like  that  ?"  so  that  Miranda's 
influence  became  an  ever-present  thing.  Sometimes 
"Me"  has  been  sorry  for  Miranda,  sometimes  he  has 
felt  that  she  would  be  pleased;  but  she  has,  so  to  speak, 
constantly  slid  down  "Me's"  chimney  exclaiming:  "Well, 
here  I  am!" 

So  again  from  the  remote  corners  of  the  earth  came 
"Me"  and  Miranda,  one  to  influence  and  one  to  be  in- 
fluenced. Are  we  not  as  the  seed  blown  by  the  wind 
until  it  meets  its  mate  ?  or  taken  on  the  wings  of  the  bee 
to  be  wedded  on  some  distant  flower  ? 

And  what  became  of  Miranda  ?  Just  what  should 
have  become  of  her!  As  evening  fell  she  approached  a 
dark  wood.  "This,"  said  Miranda,  "is  the  abode  of  the 
fierce  dragon,"  but  she  walked  on  undaunted.  As  she 
entered  the  wood,  a  thousand  monsters  rose  up  in  her 
path  and  cried: 

"What  brings  you  here  ?    Quick,  the  password!" 

"Love,"  said  Miranda,  and  they  all  vanished. 

A  prince  appeared  in  shining  armor,  and  he  took 
Miranda  by  the  hand,  and  he  drew  a  sword  which  was 
called  "Enlightenment,"  and  after  a  terrific  conflict  he 
slew  the  dragon,  and  Miranda  and  the  prince  walked 
out  of  the  wood,  and  there  they  mounted  the  prince's 
horse,  and  they  rode  away  to  his  kingdom,  which  is  as 
wide  as  the  whole  world,  and  Miranda  became  a  Queen. 
She  has  not,  however,  abandoned  the  chimney  habit  by 
any  means;  one  cannot  throw  off  a  habit  like  that  so 


THE  FAIRY  GODMOTHER  9 

easily,  and  I  happen  to  know,  though  it  is  not  suspected 
by  the  ordinary  passer-by,  that  when  the  moon  is  dim 
and  the  fire  burns  low  Miranda  will  say  to  the  King:  "I 
must  slide  down  a  chimney." 

"Whose  chimney?"  will  say  the  King. 

"Whose  chimney?"  will  say  Miranda.  "Really,  how 
can  it  matter  whose  chimney  it  is  ?  All  chimneys  lead 
to  people,  all  people  need  me,  and  I  need  all  people.  I 
say  again,  I  must  slide  down  a  chimney  this  moment, 
and  what  is  more  to  the  point,  you  must  slide  with  me." 

Of  course,  common,  selfish  people  will  turn  up  their 
common,  selfish  noses  and  consider  it  the  height  of  ab- 
surdity that  this  royal  couple  should  then  and  there 
arise  and  go  out  into  the  cold,  and  select  a  chimney, 
and  climb  up  to  it,  and  slide  down  it,  and,  having  reached 
the  floor,  it  will  seem  even  more  absurd  that  they  should 
strike  an  attitude  picturesque  and  quaint  and  say:  "Here 
we  are."  And  who  will  believe  that,  having  given  every- 
body three  wishes,  and  having  granted  at  least  two,  they 
will  fly  up  the  chimney  and  home  again  ?  I  say  no  one 
will  believe  this  thing.  Well,  it  is  not  necessary.  The 
important  thing  is  that  things  are;  not  that  you  or  I 
or  the  cat  believe  them  to  be. 

I  may  here  state  that  "Me"  called  himself  "Me," 
because  he  couldn't,  or  wouldn't,  say  "I,"  and  that 
"Me"  is  me. 


II 

THE  JAM-FACED  BOY 

A  GREAT  injury,  an  unworthy  revenge;  the  dreadful 
humiliation  of  one's  enemy,  a  noble  self-abnegation  and 
a  reconciliation  that  partook  of  the  apotheosis  in  a  fairy- 
tale— these  incidents  are  seldom  crowded  into  the  short 
space  of  thirty  minutes  in  the  history  of  even  a  grown- 
up person.  Indeed,  seldom  do  they  transpire  in  a  life- 
time. Yet  it  was  the  fortune  of  "Me"  to  undergo  the 
rage,  the  base  triumph,  the  grief,  and  the  joy  in  one-half 
hour  which  fate  reserves  usually  for  the  turbulent  cli- 
maxes of  the  careers  of  great  men. 

One  day  "Me,"  as  was  his  custom,  toddled  down  a 
flight  of  stone  steps  into  the  kitchen  of  his  father's  house. 
There  strange  and  wonderful  things  were  constantly 
happening;  blood-stained  joints  of  beef  or  mutton  were 
to  be  observed;  a  sausage  machine  might  be  turned,  and 
the  meat  transformed  into  mince  meat.  The  spice-box 
was  at  hand  whence  cinnamon,  cloves,  wintergreen, 
et  cetera,  could  be  purloined.  One  might  be  allowed  to 
manipulate  the  rolling-pin  on  a  pleasant  mess  of  dough. 
The  pantry  was  hard  by  and  one's  fingers  could  be  stuck 
in  jams  and  puddings.  Fanny  Marsh,  the  cook,  was 
large  and  red  and  amiable.  One  could  see  knives  being 
cleaned  near  at  hand  and  boots  polished.  Life  was  full 
of  interest  and  discovery.  As  "Me"  entered  the  kitchen 
on  this  particular  and  historic  occasion  his  eye  fell  on 

a  small  boy  of  the  lower  orders  seated  on  a  chair  eating 

so 


THE  JAM-FACED  BOY  11 

bread  and  jam,  a  dilapidated  doll  in  his  lap;  his  toes,  in 
muddy  and  ancient  boots,  did  not  come  within  six  inches 
of  the  floor.  "Me,"  on  the  contrary,  being  just  up  and 
dressed,  had  on  a  black-velvet  suit,  red  stockings,  and  a 
superior  pair  of  shoes  with  shining  buckles.  "Me"  en- 
tered the  kitchen  and  stared  at  the  new  boy.  That  ill- 
mannered  child  climbed  down  from  his  chair,  walked 
over  to  "Me,"  held  up  his  ragged  doll,  kicked  "Me" 
on  the  shin  and  then  put  out  his  tongue.  Having  thus 
expressed  his  feelings,  whatever  they  were,  he  went  back 
to  his  perch  and  placed  some  more  jam  on  his  face. 

"Me"  had  not  encountered  such  treatment  before. 
This  was  quite  a  new  experience.  The  new  boy  proved 
to  be  the  son  and  heir  of  a  friend  of  the  cook  who  was 
paying  a  morning  call.  His  mother,  a  cheerful-looking 
woman,  gave  her  son  a  smack  on  the  head  and  some 
good  advice,  and  returned  to  her  gossip  with  the  cook. 

"Me"  stood  deep  in  thought  for  a  moment,  then 
turned  on  his  heel  and  climbed  up  three  flights  of  stairs 
to  his  nursery.  There  were  toys  of  all  kinds — a  rocking- 
horse,  many  kinds  of  dolls  of  both  sexes  and  both  black 
and  white,  waxen  and  wooden;  mechanical  toys,  lambs 
that  said  "Baa!"  cows  that  said  "Moo!"  dogs  that 
barked,  and  bears  that,  once  wound  up,  would  walk 
about;  there  were  engines  and  railway-cars  which  would 
travel  all  over  the  room,  and  tops  which  behaved  in 
wonderful  and  eccentric  fashion.  "Me"  contemplated 
this  wealth  of  possessions  for  a  moment,  then  he  selected 
a  few  choice  specimens  and  carried  them  with  some  labor 
down  to  the  kitchen.  He  reached  the  immediate  pres- 
ence of  the  vulgar  little  boy;  he  allowed  him  to  gaze 
on  the  wonderful  toys,  then  he  passed  on  and  deposited 
them  on  the  floor  of  the  large  scullery  beyond  the 


12  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

kitchen.  The  eyes  of  the  jam-faced  boy  became  large 
with  wonder  and  envy. 

Again  "Me"  toiled  up-stairs  and  again  he  came  down 
laden  with  his  treasures.  Once  more  he  paused  in  front 
of  that  ill-mannered  urchin,  and  once  more  the  scullery 
received  the  arms  full  of  dolls,  steam-engines,  and  what 
not.  Four,  five,  six  journeys  did  "Me"  make;  silently, 
slowly,  cruelly,  inevitably  filling  the  heart  of  that 
wretched,  ill-conditioned  boy  with  envy,  hatred,  and 
malice,  and  all  uncharitableness.  At  length  down  came 
"Me"  with  his  mechanical  toys.  He  wound  them  all 
up  and  set  them  going.  The  lambs  said  "Baa!"  the 
cow  said  "Moo!"  the  dog  said  "Bow-wow!";  the  train 
ran  about,  the  bear  walked  around. 

The  jam-faced  child  could  stand  no  more.  He  opened 
wide  his  jam-filled  mouth  and  wept  as  though  his  heart 
would  break.  The  cook  and  his  mother,  who  had  gos- 
siped on  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  tragedy  enacted  in 
their  neighborhood,  turned  in  amazement  to  the  howling 
boy.  "Me,"  whose  dearest  hopes  of  vengeance  were 
now  realized,  began  to  experience  the  strangest  feeling 
of  dissatisfaction.  His  victory  seemed  unfruitful  and 
even  bitter.  A  great  impulse  to  love  this  bedraggled 
boy  choked  up  in  his  throat  and  took  hold  of  his  heart 
and  filled  up  his  eyes.  He  gathered  up  an  armful  of  his 
toys  and  threw  them  on  the  lap  of  the  yelling  urchin, 
who  placed  his  hands  on  them  and  yelled  louder  than 
before.  "Me"  procured  a  new  supply  from  where  he 
had  deposited  them  in  the  scullery,  and  again  covered 
the  weeping  youngster  with  dolls  and  other  treasures. 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  the  weeping  one's 
mother. 

"I  hate  my  dolly,"  sobbed  that  jam-faced  boy. 


THE  JAM-FACED  BOY  13 

"He  shall  have  mine,"  said  "Me."  "I  give  him 
mine." 

The  jam-faced  boy  stopped  suddenly,  a  strange  light 
shone  in  his  wet  eyes.  He  crawled  down  off  his  chair 
and  approached  "Me."  That  fortunate  creature  stood 
there  in  his  nice,  clean,  new  velvet  clothes  and  his  red 
stockings  and  his  tidy  hair,  an  unfamiliar  emotion  of 
shame  in  his  young  heart.  The  jam-faced  boy  went  to 
him  and  pressed  his  jam-covered  lips  against  "Me's" 
red  cheek  and  said:  "I  love  you." 

With  a  sob  "Me"  threw  his  arms  about  him,  and  a 
great  friendship  was  born. 

Several  times  after  this  the  jam-faced  boy  came  to 
play  in  "Me's"  garden,  and  many  times  since  has  "Me" 
hesitated  to  judge  harshly  or  to  retaliate  hastily,  because 
he  has  not  been  able  to  forget  the  sweet  taste  of  the 
jammy  lips  of  the  jam-faced  child.  The  conversion  of 
that  imp  from  a  foe  to  a  friend  contains  the  matter  for 
a  philosophical  treatise,  for  had  he  been  old  enough  or 
big  enough  to  swear  and  oppose  and  fight,  the  outcome 
might  have  been  far  otherwise.  The  doctrine  of  non- 
resistance  is  here  vindicated.  People  who  cease  to  fight 
may  love  perforce.  Who  is  he  who  declares  that,  if  you 
keep  silent  and  look  long  at  your  enemy,  you  must  soon 
love  him  out  of  very  pity — pity  that  he  is  your  enemy, 
pity  that  he  is  himself,  pity  that  he  is  man  ?  Oh,  "Me," 
think  on  this  and  be  still. 


Ill 

"GOING  NOWHERE" 

"MoRE  haste,  less  speed,"  said  Rebecca,  "MeV 
nurse.  Now  as  "Me's"  small  feet  insisted  on  running 
whether  he  wished  it  or  not,  this  comment,  often  re- 
peated, caused  him  much  concern.  It  was  Rebecca's 
custom  to  follow  up  this  remark  with  a  relation  of  the 
race  between  the  hare  and  the  tortoise.  It  always  seemed 
to  "Me"  that  he  would  much  rather  have  been  the  hare, 
although  that  giddy  animal  had  not  won  the  race,  for 
even  thus  early  was  he  convinced  that  the  joy  was  in 
the  endeavor  and  not  in  the  accomplishment.  He  pic- 
tured himself  as  the  hare  running  round  and  round  the 
tortoise  until  he  was  weary  and  then  taking  a  nap;  again 
catching  up  with  the  tortoise  and  dancing  about  that 
joyless  traveller  once  more.  Surely,  the  hare's  journey 
was  the  more  glad — to  leap  forth  with  so  much  purpose 
and  confidence  and  to  run  for  the  mere  love  of  running. 
When  the  tortoise  should  have  arrived,  what  then  ? 
What  next  ?  The  fun  surely  was  all  over  when  the  goal 
had  been  reached.  Why,  the  hare  was  better  off  after  all, 
for  he  had  still  to  get  there. 

Rebecca's  philosophy  was  by  no  means  convincing, 
and  when  her  rather  dull  eye  was  not  on  him  "Me" 
would  run,  and  run,  and  run,  with  no  object  whatever 
in  view,  merely  to  be  flying  on  tiptoe  toward  infinity. 
Pit-a-pat,  pit-a-pat  would  go  "Me's"  toes  with  amazing 
rapidity  to  school  or  from  school,  to  anywhere  or  from 


"GOING  NOWHERE"  15 

anywhere.  Not  only  now  but  later,  when  he  was  quite 
a  big  fellow,  like  the  rat-a-tat-tat  of  the  policeman's 
club  on  the  pavement,  "Me's"  mother  would  hear  his 
quick  step  a  long  way  off  and  would  run  down-stairs 
to  let  him  in,  for  she  well  knew  that  nobody  else  sped 
along  at  such  a  pace. 

"Why  do  you  always  run?"  would  say  "Me's" 
mother. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  would  reply.    "I  have  to." 

"But  you  are  not  in  a  hurry?" 

"No,  but  I  must  get  there,  anywhere,  wherever  it  is." 

"But  you  go  like  the  wind,"  said  "Me's"  mother, 
which  was  quite  true,  and  a  fine  way  to  go,  too,  whistling 
and  kicking  up  one's  heels  generally.  It  was  not  at  all 
necessary  for  there  to  be  a  prize  in  sight,  nor  any  am- 
bition to  gratify,  nor  any  one  to  emulate,  nor  anything 
to  attain;  and  when  "Me"  stopped,  breathless  and 
panting,  he  would  shortly  sing  in  an  equally  purposeless 
manner,  again  like  the  wind,  not  at  all  that  he  wished 
to  excel  as  a  singer,  nor  that  he  desired  any  praise  for 
his  singing,  nor  that,  having  sung,  he  had  the  slightest 
intention  of  trying  to  remember  what  song  he  had 
sung. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  said  Uncle  Hugh  one  day, 
when  "Me,"  flying  like  the  wind,  collided  with  him 
around  a  corner  of  the  garden. 

"Nowhere,"  said  "Me." 

"Ah !  a  very  good  place,  too,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

Most  people  would  have  considered  this  reply  foolish, 
not  so  "Me."  He  was  well  aware  that,  for  all  his  bright 
smile,  Uncle  Hugh's  remarks  were  wise  and  weighty. 
"Nowhere"  was  a  very  good  place  to  be  bound  for. 
There  were  no  responsibilities,  no  tiresome  people,  and 


16  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

then,  best  of  all,  one  never  arrived  there,  so  that  it  was 
ever  in  prospect  and  never  attained. 

When  Rebecca,  after  evening  prayers,  would  discuss 
the  advisability  of  getting  to  heaven,  "Me,"  very 
seriously,  wanted  to  know  what  he  should  do  when  he 
got  there.  Rebecca  was  much  perplexed.  Her  general 
idea  seemed  to  be  that  the  people  of  paradise  passed 
the  time  in  singing. 

"And  after  that?"  said  "Me." 

"Well,"  said  Rebecca,  "they  say  their  prayers." 

"And  what  more?"  persisted  "Me." 

But  Rebecca's  sources  of  information  were  at  an  end, 
and  "Me"  was  exhorted  not  to  be  stupid.  "Me"  gath- 
ered, however,  from  Rebecca's  casual  discourse  that 
there  would  be  much  flying  in  the  life  to  come,  which 
meant  going  "nowhere"  on  wings,  and  at  a  much  swifter 
pace  than  mere  feet  could  carry  one.  But  then  one 
could  not  fly  merely  round  and  round  in  a  circle,  nor 
flit  forever  from  cloud  to  cloud.  What  "Me"  wanted 
to  know  was  the  purpose  of  the  flying,  and  he  concluded 
that  the  condition  of  the  righteous  was  blessed  only  in 
so  far  that  this  inclination,  this  yearning,  this  hunger 
of  the  human  soul  to  be  proceeding,  to  be  ever  on  the 
way,  to  be  ever  aspiring  to  something  further,  higher, 
swifter,  was  no  doubt  in  itself  the  true  joy;  and  that 
heaven  consisted  of  no  tangible  thing  at  all,  not  of  any- 
thing done,  but  of  the  process  of  doing  and  a  vastly 
keener  sight  to  perceive  what  to  do.  So  far  as  "Me's" 
observation  went,  accomplishment  meant  being  tired 
out  and  being  put  to  bed,  or,  worse  still,  in  the  case  of 
getting  what  one  dearly  desired  to  eat,  it  meant  pain 
and  regrets  and  a  spoonful  of  treacherous  jam.  Really, 
it  seemed  that  to  look  through  the  window  of  the  sweet- 


"GOING  NOWHERE'*  17 

stuff  shop,  after  all  said  and  done,  had  produced  more 
real  happiness  than  the  actual  swallowing  of  the  many- 
colored  sugar-plums.  Indeed,  at  a  later  day,  it  was 
made  quite  clear  that  this  was  true.  To  obtain  is  to 
be  dissatisfied,  and  to  be  dissatisfied  is  to  start  on  the 
quest  anew  and  so  on  forever;  so  that  no  matter  how 
glad  one's  labor  might  make  others,  the  laborer  who 
would  be  content  must  perpetually  leave  his  work  be- 
hind and  speed  to  a  fresh  task  which  always  shall  look 
fairer  than  the  one  he  has  forsaken.  "Me"  did  not 
know  then  but  he  discerned  afterward  that  the  eternal 
restlessness  of  his  little  feet  would  mount  and  mount  to 
his  heart  and  to  his  head,  so  that  one  should  beat  and 
beat  and  the  other  plan  and  plan,  always  hastening  on 
and  on  and  on  to  "nowhere." 

That  Uncle  Hugh  had  wanted  to  rescue  "Chinese 
Gordon,"  that  was  the  great  thing;  that  he  failed  to 
do  it  mattered  nothing  at  all.  That  Uncle  Hugh  had 
ever  been  ready  to  go  "nowhere"  at  the  queen's  com- 
mand at  an  instant's  warning,  that  preparation,  that 
aspiration,  which  had  seemed  so  childish,  was  one  of 
the  things  that  had  made  Uncle  Hugh  quite  great,  quite 
poor,  and  quite  happy.  That  he  did  not  get  anywhere 
was  nothing  except  as  a  matter  of  geography.  "Me" 
and  some  other  children  realized  that.  It  was  not  neces- 
sary to  get  anywhere;  the  great  thing  was  to  start  with 
enthusiasm  and  to  keep  going  with  great  intention  on 
the  tips  of  one's  toes  forever. 

Just  about  this  time  "Me's"  schoolmaster,  Mr.  Snell- 
ing  who  kept  what  is  called  a  "Dame's  school"  (Mrs. 
Snelling  being  the  dame),  announced  that  "The  Snelling 
Academy  for  young  ladies  and  gentlemen"  would  in- 
dulge in  some  athletic  sports.  The  young  ladies  who 


i8  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

thus  proposed  to  anticipate  the  present  robuster  age, 
and  the  young  gentlemen  who  were  to  be  compelled  to 
compete  with  them,  were  aged  from  about  five  to  seven 
or  eight.  "Me"  was  actually  one  of  the  elder  boys 
since  he  was  weighed  down  by  the  burden  of  seven  sum- 
mers. Much  preparation  for  these  events  was  indulged 
in  in  "Me's"  garden.  "Me's"  own  passion  for  run- 
ning was  about  to  attain  to  the  dignity  of  a  profession. 
No  longer  was  it  to  be  a  solitary  pastime  indulged  in 
for  the  mere  love  of  travelling  on  tiptoe  with  arms 
outstretched  and  winglike.  "Me"  looked  around  at 
his  fellow  pupils  with  a  sportsman's  eye,  comparing  his 
chubby  legs  to  theirs,  and  by  means  of  certain  trial 
spurts  establishing  his  confidence  in  their  defeat.  There 
was  to  be  a  prize  consisting  of  a  pewter  mug  which  was 
exhibited  in  the  schoolroom,  and  on  the  day  of  the  sports, 
which  took  place  in  "Me's"  garden,  this  mug  and  some 
other  small  matters  excited  the  admiration  of  parents 
and  guardians.  There  were  flags  and  there  was  lemonade 
and  things  that  might  with  safety  be  eaten.  There  was 
a  tent.  Indeed  the  occasion  was  distinguished.  But 
all  these  things  have  faded  in  the  memory.  The  fact 
that  stands  out  in  bold  relief  is  that  "Me"  won  the 
race  in  fine  style  and  that  his  victory  made  him  miser- 
able. When  he  had  gained  the  pewter  mug  he  didn't 
want  it.  For  "Me's"  own  sister  and  a  boy  who  was 
universally  condemned  because  his  father  was  a  butcher 
(since  then  "Me"  has  learned  that  it  is  not  being  a 
butcher  that  excites  contempt,  the  point  being  whether 
you  are  a  small  butcher  or  a  big  butcher,  whether  you 
slay  one  cow  or  one  million) — "Me's"  own  sister  and 
the  blood-stained  butcher  boy  wept  bitterly  because 
they  had  lost  the  race.  "Me"  thought  they  wanted 


From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 

UNCLE    HUGH   AND   HIS    DOG 


"GOING  NOWHERE"  19 

the  mug.  First  he  went  to  his  tear-drenched  sister  and 
embracing  her  said:  "Here!  take  it.  I  give  it  to 
you." 

That  athletic  female  thrust  him  away  and  cried:  "I 
don't  want  the  mug;  I  wanted  to  win  the  race." 

Abashed,  "Me"  approached  the  butcher  boy.  "I 
give  you  the  mug,"  said  "Me,"  handing  his  treasure  to 
the  steak-fed  child. 

That  worthy  stopped  crying,  flung  the  mug  away  and 
yelled:  "I  don't  want  it.  I  wanted  to  win." 

"Me"  let  the  mug  stay  where  it  fell.  He  did  not 
want  it  either.  What  he  had  wanted  he  had  achieved, 
and  that  he  knew  was  victory;  but  victory  that  made 
other  people  wretched,  which  made  him  wretched,  was 
no  victory.  That  was  strange,  and  then  he  knew  that 
he,  too,  would  have  wept  had  he  met  defeat,  and  that 
without  victory  the  mug  was  no  mug. 

For  some  days  "Me's"  sister  and  the  butcher  boy 
would  not  be  comforted;  indeed  their  spirits  were  only 
revived  when  "Me"  raced  them  once  more  and  let  them 
win. 

Rebecca  was  present  on  this  occasion.  Said  she  to 
"Me":  "There  1  'Master  Clever,'  what  did  I  tell  you  ? 
More  haste,  less  speed." 

Then  was  "Me"  entirely  convinced  that  the  hare  had 
allowed  the  tortoise  to  pass  him  out  of  pure  pity,  and 
because  he  had  discovered  the  entire  futility  of  winning 
anything  at  any  time  or  anywhere.  The  great  satis- 
faction consisted  not  in  winning  but  in  being  able  to 
win,  and  sometimes  even  in  seeing  other  people  win. 
Then  there  were  the  losers,  how  about  them  ?  The 
butcher  boy,  for  instance ! 

"What  are  those  people  doing?"  said  "Me"  to  Uncle 


20  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Hugh,  who  had  taken  him  to  an  art  gallery.  The  people 
in  question  were  seated  at  easels  copying  pictures. 

Said  Uncle  Hugh:  "They  are  studying  art." 

A  woman,  who  wore  an  apron  which  was  covered  with 
paint  till  it  resembled  Joseph's  coat  of  many  colors, 
here  closed  one  eye  while  she  held  up  a  paint-brush, 
running  her  thumb  up  and  down  it  as  she  thrust  it  be- 
tween her  and  a  painting  which  hung  on  the  wall. 

"What  is  she  doing?"  whispered  "Me." 

"She's  measuring  something,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"Why  does  she  close  one  eye?"  said  "Me." 

"So  that  she  can  see  better,"  replied  Uncle  Hugh. 

"Me"  took  a  good  look  at  the  woman  student. 
"But,"  said  he,  after  a  survey,  "she  has  the  other  eye 
half  closed  too,  why  is  that  ?" 

"She  is  an  artist,"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  "and  an  artist 
must  learn  to  see  with  half  an  eye." 

"Why?"  said  "Me." 

Replied  Uncle  Hugh:  "So  that  with  half  an  eye  he  can 
see  more  than  you  or  I  can  see  with  both  eyes  wide  open." 

"And  when  he  sees,  what  does  he  do?"  said  "Me." 

"He  runs,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"Runs?"  said  "Me."    "Runs  where?" 

"Nowhere,"  answered  Hugh.  "As  you  do  and  as  I  do. 
To  see  as  he  learns  to  see  is  to  want  to  do,  and  to  want 
to  do  is  to  want  to  run,  and  to  run  when  you  want  to 
is  to  be  happy,  and " 

But  "Me"  finished  the  sentence:  "And  to  win  the 
mug  is  to  want  to  throw  it  away." 

"Yes,"  said  Hugh.  "To  throw  it  away  and  to  keep 
on  running." 

"Does  it  matter  which  eye  you  shut?"  said  "Me," 
shutting  each  of  his  eyes  alternately. 


21 

"Not  as  a  rule,"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  "but  some  people 
have  only  one  good  eye,  and  if  they  choose  to  shut  that 
then  they  can't  see  at  all." 

"What  do  they  do  then?"  inquired  "Me." 

"They  approach  the  people  who  have  learned  to  see 
with  only  half  an  eye,  and  tell  them  how  to  see." 

"But  if  they  can't  see  themselves,"  said  "Me,"  "they 
must  be  blind." 

"That's  just  where  the  fun  comes  in,"  said  Uncle 
Hugh,  "when  the  people,  with  only  one  eye  half  shut 
who  can  see  more  than  the  people  with  two  eyes  wide 
open,  are  told  how  to  see  by  the  people  who  have  no 
eyes  at  all."  And  here  Uncle  Hugh  indulged  in  one  of 
those  fits  of  laughter  which  convinced  persons  that  he 
was  deranged. 

"What's  an  artist?"  said  "Me"  suddenly. 

Uncle  Hugh  stopped  laughing.  "An  artist,"  said  he, 
"is  one  of  those  fellows  who  can  see  with  half  an 
eye." 

"And  what  is  art?"  persisted  the  insatiable  "Me." 

"Art,"  pondered  the  ever-patient  Hugh,  "is  the  work 
accomplished  by  the  fellow  who  has  become  so  inspired 
by  the  things  he  sees  with  half  an  eye  that,  in  spite  of 
everything  he  is  told  by  the  fellows  who  have  no  eyes, 
he  excites  the  emotions  of  the  people  who  can't  see  very 
much  with  two  eyes,  to  such  an  extent  that  these  fellows 
with  two  eyes  see  everything  he  has  seen  with  his  half 
eye.  This  is  called  interpretation.  The  thing  seen  and 
interpreted  is  nature  and  the  interpretation  is  art,  which, 
being  so  greatly  a  question  of  eyes,  may  be  said  to  be 
'all  my  eye."  And  here  that  ridiculous  Uncle  Hugh 
cackled  again. 

"What  is  an  'interpreter'?"  said  "Me." 


22  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"An  interpreter  is  an  untidy  fellow  with  long  hair 
who  makes  you  understand  a  foreign  language." 

"Oh,  yes,  a  sort  of  waiter,"  said  "Me,"  who  had  once 
lunched  at  Gatti's. 

"Quite  so,"  said  Hugh,  "a  waiter.  That  is,  he  waits. 
Frequently  he  waits  a  long  while  for  people  to  under- 
stand him,  and  for  his  pay;  usually  he  is  not  paid  until 
he  is  dead.  In  fact,  it  may  be  said  of  interpreters  gen- 
erally that  they  don't  really  live  until  they  die." 

"That's  strange,"  said  "Me." 

"Yes,"  reflected  Hugh.  "Dead  men  tell  more  tales 
than  they  are  credited  with.  In  fact,  you  may  say  that 
we  leave  'em  alone  till  they've  gone  home  and  left  their 
tales  behind  them." 

"Oh!  that's  Bo-Peep!"  cried  "Me." 

"Yes,"  said  Hugh,  "Bo-Peep,  a  great  philosopher  who 
believed  as  I  do  that  all  things  are  ordained;  and  per- 
ceived that  her  sheep  were  not  lost  but  merely  gone 
before  with  their  tails  still  inevitably  behind.  No  doubt 
she  left  them  alone  and  kept  on  running.  This  matter 
of  running,"  said  Hugh,  "is  really  at  the  bottom  of 
everything.  There  is  just  one  thing  to  remember,  and 
that  is  that  we  mustn't  run  away,  because  to  run  away 
means  that  you  are  trying  to  get  somewhere,  to  hide, 
to  escape.  Of  course,  that  won't  do  at  all.  Once  you 
did  that  you'd  be  out  of  the  running,  and  even  if  you 
were  allowed  to  run  you  wouldn't  want  to  run  any  more, 


ever." 


"Yes,"  said  "Me."  "That  would  change  everything, 
of  course." 

Said  Hugh:  "People  who  are  going  'nowhere*  always 
sing  and  laugh.  Look  at  all  the  people  in  the  street, 
they  are  all  going  somewhere.  You  don't  see  one  man 


"GOING  NOWHERE"  23 

in  a  thousand  even  smile.  Now  and  then  a  boy  will 
whistle,  but  not  for  long.  He'll  be  going  somewhere 
soon,  and  then  he'll  be  sad  and  silent  like  the  rest." 

"Hello!  Stewart,  what  are  you  doing  here?"  said 
a  man  who  now  approached. 

"Cruising,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"Becalmed?"  said  the  man. 

"No,  under  full  sail,"  said  Hugh. 

"Where  are  you  bound  for?"  said  the  man. 

"Nowhere,"  said  Hugh. 

"Good,"  said  the  man.  "May  you  reach  the  For- 
tunate Islands,"  and  away  he  went. 

"Where  are  the  Fortunate  Islands?"  inquired  "Me." 

"They  don't  exist,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"Then  how  can  you  reach  them?"  wondered 
"Me." 

"You  can't  reach  them.  That's  just  what  I  tell  you," 
said  Hugh.  "They  don't  exist  because  they  are  for- 
tunate, and  it  is  fortunate  that  they  don't  exist,  other- 
wise we  would  reach  them,  and  what  would  we  do 
then?" 

"We  would  have  nowhere  to  run  to,"  said  "Me." 

"Exactly,"  replied  Hugh. 

"Besides,"  continued  "Me,"  "if  we  ever  reached  them 
we  might  find  they  were  not  fortunate  after  all." 

"There  you  are  again!"  cried  Hugh. 

"Then  we  should  sit  down  and  cry,  I  suppose,"  said 
"Me." 

"That  would  be  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish,"  said  Uncle 
Hugh. 

"So  it's  better  to  keep  on  under  full  sail,  isn't  it?" 
said  "Me." 

"Yes!"  cried  Hugh  with  enthusiasm,  "with  the  wind 


24  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

in  your  face  and  waves  high,  and  the  spray  all  about, 

and  your  weather-eye  on  the  stars." 

"Which  is  your  weather-eye?"  said  "Me." 

"It's  the  one  you  keep  half  open,"  whispered  Uncle 

Hugh. 


"YOU'LL  be  sorry  when  I'm  dead,"  said  "Me"  one 
day  to  his  nurse,  Rebecca.  This  remark  had  such  an 
effect,  by  throwing  Rebecca  into  hysterics,  that  the 
value  of  it  as  a  weapon  of  defense  became  instantly  ap- 
parent to  "Me."  He  tried  it  by  way  of  experiment  on 
his  mother.  She  did  not  make  an  outcry  as  Rebecca 
had  done,  but  she  ceased  talking  and  paled  visibly,  and 
looked  long  and  tenderly  at  "Me."  "Me's"  heart 
smote  him,  but  the  idea  of  self-destruction  began  to 
take  root,  and  as  "Me"  played  in  the  garden  that  day 
he  would  pause  now  and  then  as  some  fresh  means  of 
doing  away  with  himself  occurred  to  him. 

There  was  every  reason  why  "Me"  should  consider 
suicide.  He  was  adored  by  his  parents;  idolized  by 
Rebecca;  the  gardener  could  not  garden  without  him; 
there  was  no  wish  he  could  possibly  formulate  which 
would  not  instantly  be  granted.  Consequently,  life  was 
a  burden  to  "Me,"  and  the  realms  beyond  the  grave 
properly  became  food  for  contemplation. 

Uncle  Hugh  was  consulted  at  an  early  date,  and  told 
strange  tales  of  how  people  had  destroyed  themselves. 
The  phoenix  was  especially  interesting — making  a  con- 
flagration of  himself  and  then,  just  when  everybody  was 
saying  how  sorry  they  were,  and  what  a  lovely  bird  he 
had  been,  springing  up  out  of  his  own  ashes  and  saying: 
"Here  we  are  again !"  The  pelican,  too,  was  an  exciting 
fowl  which  allowed  its  children  to  eat  it  up  and,  so  to 

as 


26  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

speak,  lived  again  in  its  progeny.  Then  there  was  a 
certain  Black  Knight  of  King  Arthur's  court  who  used 
to  permit  people  to  cut  his  head  off  at  one  blow,  only 
to  pick  it  up  with  his  own  two  hands  and  place  it  again 
on  his  shoulders.  This  seemed  an  admirable  plan  of 
self-immolation.  Then  there  was  a  god  who  had  de- 
parted this  life  by  turning  himself  into  a  flower,  and  a 
goddess  who,  grown  weary,  had  transformed  herself  into 
a  tree.  This  again  opened  up  pleasant  possibilities  and 
"Me"  regarded  the  various  green  things  in  the  garden 
with  speculative  eye  as  he  debated  which  of  them  he 
would  prefer  to  become. 

Several  kittens  had  lately  been  drowned  in  the  stable- 
yard.  The  coachman  had  condemned  them  to  a  watery 
grave.  "Me"  had  witnessed  their  demise  with  solemn 
interest,  and  poked  them  with  sticks  after  the  spirit 
had  fled.  A  funeral  had  taken  place  next  door,  and 
from  the  nursery  window  a  fine  view  could  be  had  of  the 
proceedings.  Besides  friends  and  relatives,  there  were 
a  dozen  "mutes,"  or  hired  mourners,  who,  of  course,  had 
never  met  or  known  or  heard  of  the  deceased.  Rebecca 
had  declared  that  it  was  a  fine  funeral,  and  that  one 
should  always  have  at  least  twelve  "mutes"  to  weep  for 
one  on  one's  final  journey. 

"What  do  they  weep  for,"  asked  "Me,"  "if  they 
don't  know  the  dead  person  ?" 

"They  are  paid  to  weep,"  said  Rebecca. 

"How  much  are  they  paid?"  asked  "Me." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Rebecca.  "Don't  ask  no 
questions,  and  you'll  receive  no  answers." 

This  was  a  self-evident  proposition,  but  it  did  not 
silence  "Me's"  speculations  as  to  the  value  of  sorrow. 
He  pursued  his  train  of  thought  with  Biggs,  the  butler, 


SORRY  WHEN  DEAD  27 

who  was  of  the  opinion  that  a  "mute"  might  be  paid 
as  much  as  five  shillings  to  weep  for  a  gentleman  and 
two  shillings  and  six  pence  for  a  poor  man. 

"How  much  for  a  little  boy?"  said  "Me." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  for  a  little  boy  about  a  shilling,"  said 
Biggs. 

"And  how  much  would  he  cry  for  a  shilling?"  per- 
sisted "Me." 

"Oh,  a  bit  at  the  'ouse,  and  a  bit  at  the  cemetery. 
'Mutes'  don't  cry  on  the  road,  I  fancy,"  said  Biggs, 
"  and  they  laugh  on  the  way  back." 

It  seemed  to  "Me,"  on  thinking  it  over,  that  tears  at 
this  rate  would  be  about  a  farthing  apiece  for  a  little 
boy.  That  seemed  a  lot  of  money  and  an  agreeable 
way  to  earn  one's  living,  almost  as  good  as  being  a  her- 
mit, and  "Me"  seriously  thought  for  some  while  that 
if  he  should  decide  to  compromise  the  matter  and  hang 
on  to  life  he  might  do  worse  than  be  a  "mute."  That 
one  must  sooner  or  later  become  an  angel  was  a  fact 
established.  Rebecca  had  a  lot  of  pictures  of  angels, 
male  and  female.  There  was,  however,  some  confusion 
in  "Me's"  mind  as  to  whether  he  would  eventually  be 
an  angel  or  a  sheep.  Rebecca  dictated  prayers  each 
night  to  "Me"  and  his  small  sister  and  minuter  brother. 
In  chorus  they  repeated: 

"The  Lord's  my  Shepherd,  I'll  not  want; 
He  makes  me  down  to  lie, 
In  pastures  green  He  leadeth  me, 
The  quiet  waters  by. 
My  soul  He  doth  restore  again, 
And  me  to  walk  doth  make 
Forth  in  the  paths  of  righteousness 
And  for  His  own  dear  sake." 


28  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

The  chief  picture  called  up  in  "Me's"  mind  was  the 
picture  of  himself  and  his  sister  and  brother  as  sheep. 
For  many  moons  "pastures  green"  was  to  "Me"  "Par- 
ders  Green,"  which  seemed  a  locality  such  as  Turnham 
Green  or  Shepherd's  Bush.  "He  doth,"  owing  to  Re- 
becca's lack  of  h's,  became  "Edith,"  a  female  who  ap- 
peared to  have  some  influence,  and  "walk  doth  make" 
was  translated  by  repetition  into  "wardothmake,"  a 
word  of  no  significance  whatever.  After  many  days 
"Me"  thought  what  it  all  meant,  and  questioned  Re- 
becca as  to  "Parders  Green,"  and  "Edith,"  and  "war- 
dothmake." After  much  discussion,  "Me"  was  fain  to 
confess  that  the  entire  prayer  was  a  puzzle  to  him,  and 
that  he  was  especially  confounded  to  decipher  how  he 
could  be  at  one  and  the  same  time  a  sheep  and  an  angel. 
Rebecca's  resources  were  stretched  to  the  utmost  to 
satisfy  "Me's"  analytical  mind,  and  she  at  length  made 
confusion  worse  confounded  by  declaring  that  "Me" 
was  a  donkey,  a  statement  which,  though  final,  was  no 
solution.  Being  yet  unacquainted  with  the  doctrine 
of  transmigration  of  souls,  "Me"  contemplated  this 
threefold  personality  with  mixed  satisfaction  and  dis- 
gust. 

Up  to  now,  grief  had  to  "Me"  been  associated  with 
outcry  and  hullabaloo,  and  he  was  much  astonished  one 
day  when  told  that  the  sad  lady  next  door,  who  walked 
for  hours  and  hours  in  her  garden,  as  "Me"  could  see 
by  climbing  on  to  his  own  wall,  was  dying  of  grief.  She 
made  no  noise,  she  shed  no  tears,  she  made  no  faces, 
the  usual  accompaniments  of  grief  were  absent — all. 
Sweetly,  kindly,  gently,  silently,  she  would  greet  "Me" 
on  the  wall.  A  little  while  and  she  was  no  more;  she 
had  died  of  longing  for  the  man  who  was  gone.  This, 


SORRY  WHEN  DEAD  29 

then,  was  grief,  noiseless  and  low;  no  sounds,  no  fuss, 
no  cry.  That  seemed  very  strange. 

After  a  while  "Me"  was  taken  to  church  and  in- 
troduced to  the  mysteries  of  finding  things  in  prayer- 
books,  hymns,  collects,  lessons,  psalms.  It  was  ail  very 
distracting  and  what  with  people  saying,  "How  de  do?" 
and  finding  money  to  put  in  the  plate,  and  looking  out 
at  the  corners  of  eyes  at  other  people's  bonnets,  and 
prodding  persons  to  keep  them  awake,  "Me"  found  a 
great  amount  of  entertainment,  but  wondered  con- 
siderably how  it  all  helped  to  get  one  into  heaven,  to 
become  an  angel  or  a  sheep.  Here  "Me"  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  tragedy  of  Cain  and  Abel.  An  old 
gentleman  in  the  pulpit  told  the  story  very  graphically, 
and  laid  stress  on  the  long  and  silent  vigils  of  Cain.  He 
traced  Cain's  growing  anger  against  Abel,  pictured  the 
awful  crime  in  a  terrible  manner,  and  drew  such  a  ghastly 
image  of  Cain's  punishment  in  after  years  that  "Me" 
was  awake  all  night,  and  swore  under  the  clothes  that 
he  never  would  build  altars  or  make  burnt  offerings  as 
long  as  he  lived.  This,  then,  was  hate,  thought  "Me." 
Here  was  a  passion  new  and  terrible;  imagination 
shivered  before  such  a  picture  as  this.  "Me"  con- 
templated his  own  small  brother  and  wondered  if  he 
could  ever  bring  himself  to  slay  him.  The  idea  was  so 
overwhelming  that  he  burst  into  uproarious  grief,  and 
for  quite  a  while  could  not  be  comforted. 

"Me's"  mother  used  to  read  to  him  a  good  deal — 
stories,  fairy-tales,  some  poetry.  "Me"  was  always 
very  attentive  and  always  asked  a  great  many  ques- 
tions. He  was  especially  curious  as  to  why  gentlemen 
who  loved  ladies  made  such  very  long  and  tiresome 
speeches  to  impress  this  fact  upon  them;  the  talk  seemed 


30  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

so  excessively  wearisome  and  unnecessary,  and  "Me" 
always  begged  to  be  spared  this  part  of  the  romance, 
and  to  have  it  skipped  so  one  could  get  on  to  the  fight- 
ing or  the  escapes  on  horseback,  or  the  adventures  of 
the  funny  characters.  One  day,  however,  "MeV 
mother  read  the  comedy  of  "Twelfth  Night,"  and  "Me's" 
attention,  which  had  wandered  a  bit,  became  riveted 
when  she  came  to  the  lines: 

"She  never  told  her  love 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek;  she  pined  in  thought,- 
And  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy 
She  sat  like  Patience  on  a  monument 
Smiling  at  grief.    Was  not  this  love  indeed  ?" 

How  it  was  that  the  words  remained  in  his  memory  he  did 
not  know,  but  they  did,  and  the  fact  that  love  is  silent, 
and  still,  and  strong,  and  voiceless  took  hold  of  "Me's" 
imagination.  He  had  in  his  mind  three  distinct  pictures: 
The  silent  lady's  grief,  Cain's  hate,  and  the  voiceless 
love  of  the  woman  in  the  poem.  This  latter  he  inev- 
itably associated  with  the  gentle,  ever-watchful,  ever- 
loving  face  that  bent  over  him  the  last  thing  each  night 
and  greeted  him  the  first  thing  each  morning.  The  im- 
pression of  this  threefold  image  came  and  went  again 
as  the  years  flew  by  until  "Me"  grew  to  have  a  settled 
conviction  that  lines  expressing  this  image  and  this  idea 
existed,  and  that  he  knew  them  by  heart  and  yet  knew 
them  not.  He  could  almost  see  them  and  hear  them. 
Many  years  afterward  he  came  across  a  writing-cabinet 
such  as  people  used  in  those  days,  a  thing  like  a  box 
with  brass  corners  which  opened  in  the  middle  and 
formed  a  sloping  desk.  Some  old  letters  and  papers 


MOTHER    OF    EDWARD    H.    SOTHERN 


SORRY  WHEN  DEAD  31 

were  inside,  and  in  the  handwriting  of  a  hand  long 
still,  clear  and  firm  as  though  written  yesterday,  were 
the  lines  always  known  and  never  beheld,  penned  in 
the  day  when  his  brain  first  received  them,  surely  an 
echo  from  that  other  brain  which  had  thought  and 
planned  and  joyed  and  sorrowed  for  him  long,  long  ago: 

"Deep  grief  is  still.     Deep  grief  is  still  and  low, 
Silent  its  waters  ebb  and  silent  flow. 
Not  hers  the  outcry  and  the  labor'd  breath; 
She  is  as  quiet  as  her  sister  Death, 
And  suffering  all,  feareth  no  further  blow. 

"Deep  hate  is  still.     Deep  hate  is  low  and  still. 
Hate  slumbers  not;   but,  hugging  close  its  ill, 
With  half-shut,  glowing  eyes  doth  watch  and  wait, 
Gnawing  its  heart,  so  feeding  hate  with  hate, 
While  its  pale,  horrid,  speechless  lips  say  'Kill!' 

"  Still  is  deep  love.     So  still !     So  still  and  deep, 
'Twould  seem  love  languished,  lying  there  asleep; 
But  that  his  smiling  mouth  forever  says: 
'Lo !     I  am  here !    Mine  are  thy  nights  and  days !' 
In  shine  or  shadow,  do  you  laugh  or  weep." 


FINE   FEATHERS 

WHEN  the  big  policeman  appeared  on  the  scene  and 
told  the  wicked  boys  to  "move  on  out  of  that,"  one 
youngster,  utterly  unabashed  by  the  majesty  of  the  law, 
cried:  "Oh,  go  on!  It  ain't  you,  it's  your  clothes." 

This  statement  reduced  the  criminal  code,  and  the 
penitentiaries,  and  the  wisdom  of  centuries,  and  the 
"bobby"  evolved  thereby  as  the  symbol  of  order,  to 
what  that  bluecoat  actually  is:  a  symbol.  When  he 
holds  up  his  hand  and  the  mighty  traffic  of  London 
stops,  ebbs,  or  flows  at  his  beck,  it  is  his  clothes — the 
outward  and  visible  "bobby" — who,  finger  on  pulse, 
thus  affects  the  circulation  of  London's  great  heart. 
Some  yards  of  blue  cloth  and  quite  a  number  of  buttons, 
enclosing  one  mere  man,  enable  him  to  hold  multitudes 
in  subjection. 

The  whole  thing  seemed  to  be  a  question  of  clothes. 
This  is  what  happened:  "Me"  was  out  shopping  with 
his  mother.  The  carriage  had  stopped  at  the  dress- 
maker's in  New  Bond  Street;  a  very  small  and  dirty 
boy  was  being  sadly  overcome  and  beaten  by  several 
larger  and  even  dirtier  boys.  Without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  "Me's"  mother,  quite  regardless  of  her 
beautiful  dress,  and  unmindful  of  a  crowd  of  very  supe- 
rior people  clad  in  the  height  of  fashion,  had  flown  to 
the  rescue  of  the  small  and  dirty  boy,  had  broken  her 
lovely  parasol  over  the  heads  of  his  tormentors;  with 

32 


FINE  FEATHERS  33 

remarkable  strategy,  had  swung  the  tiny  victim  behind 
her,  and  stood  panting  and  victorious,  holding  the  aston- 
ished foemen  at  bay. 

"Me's"  mother  possessed  a  very  sweet  touch  of  Irish 
brogue  and  she  now,  with  flushed  cheeks,  offered  some 
advice  to  the  small  boy's  oppressors  that  had  the  effect 
which  music  is  said  to  have  upon  the  savage  breasts. 
The  crowd,  held  back  by  the  policeman,  behaved  as 
crowds  usually  do.  There  was  some  sympathy,  some 
laughter,  some  comment,  and  much  wonder  as  the  pretty 
lady  lifted  the  ragged  urchin  into  her  carriage  and  told 
"Me"  to  keep  him  there  until  the  wicked  big  boys  had 
disappeared.  "Me's"  mother  then  went  into  the  shop 
and  spent  some  time  in  trying  on  new  frocks. 

Pointer,  the  coachman,  was  extremely  proud  of  his 
carriage,  and  his  harness,  and  his  nice  white  breeches, 
and  his  shiny  top-boots,  and  his  shinier  silk  hat,  and 
when  he  sat  on  the  box  outside  a  shop  it  was  really  a 
great  sight.  He  was  very  serious  and  not  inclined  to 
laugh  at  anything,  although  now  and  then  he  would 
condescend  to  look  exceedingly  knowing,  as  much  as 
to  say:  "Of  course  you  and  I  and  Queen  Victoria,  we 
know  better."  "Me"  had  often  thought  how  nobly 
stern  and  immovable  Pointer  was  under  the  gibes  of 
cab-drivers  and  omnibus-drivers  and  other  people  who 
appeared  to  have  been  born  without  any  manners  at 
all,  and  who,  it  seemed,  felt  called  upon  to  shout  comic 
and  disturbing  remarks  at  all  dignified  persons.  Pointer 
apparently  was  always  stone-deaf  on  these  occasions, 
and  as  impervious  as  the  iron  statue  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  at  Hyde  Park  corner.  When  out  driving 
with  Pointer  on  the  box,  "Me"  felt  that  London,  as 
it  were,  revolved  about  that  silent,  confident  figure. 


34  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Buses  and  cabs  and  even  streets  seemed  to  do  just  as 
he  wanted  them  to;  pedestrians  and  peddlers  and  cross- 
ing-sweepers actually  appeared  to  belong  to  him,  and 
to  be  entirely  subservient  to  his  caprice.  Pointer  was  a 
lordly  personage  and  one  not  to  be  lightly  questioned 
even  by  the  police.  "Me"  thought  that  perhaps  Mr. 
Gladstone  alone  would  properly  interrogate  him  when 
on  the  box. 

It  may  be  imagined  then  that  when  the  dirty  boy  was 
placed  by  "Me's"  mother  in  the  clean  carriage,  "Me's" 
first  thought  was:  "What  will  Pointer  think?"  And 
sure  enough  there  was  Pointer,  his  head  turned  back- 
ward and  his  left  eye  strained  through  the  carriage  win- 
dow, and  with  a  look  which  plainly  said:  "Here's  a 
pretty  go!"  Rude  fellows  in  the  crowd,  which  had  col- 
lected to  observe  the  fray,  made  some  remarks  which 
were  intended  to  agitate  Pointer  and  calculated  to  dis- 
turb his  dignity.  For  example,  he  was  asked  how  he 
"liked  driving  a  bathing-machine,"  and  whether  he  in- 
tended "to  provide  the  mud-stained  little  boy  with  a 
piece  of  soap."  Pointer's  interior  was  without  a  doubt 
seething  like  a  very  volcano,  but  his  demeanor  was  as 
cold  as  a  frosty  morning,  and  his  countenance  as  re- 
served as  a  bath  bun.  Having  relieved  its  feeling  and 
exhaused  its  wit  on  the  unresponsive  Pointer,  and  per- 
suaded by  the  paternal  policeman,  the  crowd  evaporated. 
"Me"  was  left  alone  face  to  face  with  the  street  arab. 
Surprise  had  silenced  that  adventurer.  After  a  few  sub- 
siding sniffles  and  two  or  three  final  sobs,  he  sat  and 
glared  at  "Me"  wordless,  mud-stained,  and  pale.  He  had 
been  badly  beaten;  one  arm  hung  limp  and  gave  him 
evident  pain  when  he  moved,  he  had  a  cut  above  his 
eye,  some  blood  trickled  over  his  nose. 


FINE  FEATHERS  35 

No  doubt  social  intercourse  is  somewhat  artificial. 
It  has  to  be  taught,  from  placing  one's  knife  and  fork 
tidily  together  on  the  plate,  to  opening  a  conversation 
cunningly,  or  entering  upon  a  new  acquaintance  with 
tact  and  propriety.  "Me"  had  pretty  good  manners, 
but  his  impulses  were  still  controlled  by  certain  pre- 
cepts, and  he  found  himself  distinctly  considering  how 
Rebecca  would  have  advised  him  to  proceed  in  this  un- 
precedented emergency,  and  seriously  concerned  as  to 
what  Pointer  was  thinking.  The  new  boy's  nose  solved 
the  problem.  "Me"  took  from  his  pocket  a  nice  clean 
handkerchief  and  pressed  it  shyly  into  the  paw  of  the 
visitor. 

"Please  blow  your  nose,"  said  "Me." 

The  new  boy  winced  as  "Me"  touched  his  right  arm 
and  said:  "Ow!  I  can't  lift  it." 

"Me"  placed  the  handkerchief  in  the  left  hand,  and 
the  child  wiped  the  blood  from  his  brow  and  polished 
his  nose  as  if  it  were  a  door-knob.  The  ice  thus  broken, 
"Me"  asked  the  small  creature  why  the  others  had 
beaten  him. 

"'Cos  I'm  a  little  *un,"  said  the  disabled  boy.  "You 
just  wait  till  I'm  a  big  'un,  I'll  show  you." 

From  this  point  confidences  were  swift.  The  new- 
comer confided  in  "Me"  that  he  was  hungry  and  "Me" 
produced  things  to  eat,  purchased  at  Bonthron  the 
baker's,  where  it  was  customary  to  stop  for  provender 
on  shopping  days.  The  new  boy  rapidly  became  sticky 
as  well  as  dirty. 

Shortly  "Me's"  mother  came  out  of  the  shop.  She 
fluttered  a  moment  over  the  street  boy  and,  finding  that 
his  arm  really  was  injured,  concluded  that  he  should 
be  taken  to  a  hospital.  Pointer  was  given  directions. 


36  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

He  touched  his  shining  hat  with  his  whip,  and  away 
went  the  clean  carriage  and  the  dirty  boy. 

At  the  hospital  it  was  declared  that  the  arm  was 
broken — not  very  serious,  but  it  meant  many  days  in 
bed.  The  child's  mother  was  to  be  notified.  "Me's" 
mother  made  many  arrangements.  She  waited  until 
the  small  stranger  had  been  bathed  and  placed  in  a 
lovely  white  bed.  When  she  and  "Me"  went  to  look 
at  him,  his  face  had  been  washed,  his  hair  brushed,  he 
had  on  a  perfectly  clean  white  nightgown.  "Me's" 
mother  said  he  was  a  pretty  little  fellow  and  bent  down 
and  kissed  him. 

Said  "Me"  on  the  way  down-stairs:  "I  thought  he 
was  a  common  little  boy,  but  he  looks  quite  nice." 

"That  was  his  clothes,"  said  "Me's"  mother.  "Be 
sure  to  remember  that  all  little  children  are  equal." 

"Are  they  all  ladies  and  gentlemen,  then  ?"  said  "Me." 

"They  are  angels,"  said  "Me's"  mother. 

"Am  I  an  angel?"  said  "Me." 

"Me's"  mother  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  she  kissed 
"Me"  and  laughed. 

It  was  evident  that  soap  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with 
making  people  angels.  It  had  not  been  noticed  that 
this  boy  was  an  angel  until  after  he  had  been  washed ! 

"How  long  are  they  angels?"  asked  "Me." 

"Oh,  until  they  grow  up,"  replied  "Me's"  mother, 
and  she  stopped  her  laughter  and  looked  out  at  the  car- 
riage window. 

"Aren't  grown-up  people  angels?"  persisted  "Me." 

"Not  often,"  said  "Me's"  mother. 

"Are  they  equal,  too?"  said  "Me." 

"Well,  no,  I'm  afraid  they  are  not,"  and  "Me's" 
mother  was  laughing  again. 


FINE  FEATHERS  37 

"When  do  little  children  stop  being  equal?"  "Me" 
inquired. 

"When  they  stop  being  children,"  said  "Me's" 
mother. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  "Me,"  as  a  light  broke  in  on  him, 
"when  some  grow  up  to  be  bigger  than  others.  Of 
course,  they  are  not  equal  then." 

Said  "Me's"  mother:  "That  is  their  outside.  That 
they  are  equal  is  not  a  question  of  outsides." 

"Oh,  it's  their  insides,  then!"  cried  "Me." 

"Me's"  mother  was  very  patient,  but  here  was  a 
sorry  problem:  how  to  satisfy  "Me's"  curiosity  on  a 
rather  abstruse  question. 

"My  darling,"  said  she,  "it  is  not  what  people  look 
like  that  makes  them  your  equals  or  your  inferiors;  it 
is  what  they  really  are.  I  want  you  to  remember  that. 
This  little  boy  is  now  a  child,  so  he  is  good.  He  may 
grow  up  to  be  bad.  It  is  not  at  all  whether  he  will  be 
tall  or  short,  but  whether  he  will  be  a  good  man  or  a 
bad  man." 

"Me"  pondered  over  the  rude  boy's  remark  to  the 
policeman:  "It  ain't  you,  it's  your  clothes."  The  new 
boy  had  looked  just  like  a  little  gentleman  when  he  was 
washed  and  in  a  nice  clean  bed.  It  was  his  clothes,  then, 
that  made  all  the  difference.  The  fact  really  appeared 
to  be  that  only  little  children  without  any  clothes  were 
equal.  "Me"  had  observed  that  at  the  seaside,  when 
bathing,  you  really  could  not  tell  gentlemen  from  com- 
mon people  when  they  were  in  the  sea,  clad  merely  in 
bathing-suits.  He  particularly  remembered  that  once 
a  waiter  from  the  hotel  had  been  mistaken  by  bathers 
for  a  French  count,  who  was  expected  with  much  curios- 
ity, and  how  the  waiter  had  had  to  explain  to  an  old 


38  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

lady  who  entered  into  a  conversation  with  him,  while 
they  were  in  the  water,  that  he  was  only  a  waiter,  and 
how  the  old  lady  had  declared  that  "really  such  people 
should  not  be  allowed  to  bathe.  The  sea,"  asserted  the 
old  lady,  "was  only  intended  for  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

Uncle  Hugh  was  approached  on  the  matter.  "Me" 
desired  to  know  when  people  began  to  be  unequal.  Said 
Hugh:  "You  will  hear  some  day  that  'the  tailor  makes 
the  man';  but  don't  believe  it.  The  tailor  only  dis- 
guises the  man.  If  the  tailor  made  the  man,  all  the  wax- 
works at  Madame  Tussaud's  would  be  alive  and  kick- 
ing; but  they  are  not,  in  spite  of  all  their  fine  clothes 
they  are  only  waxworks." 

Said  "Me":  "If  all  common  people  were  washed, 
would  that  make  them  ladies  and  gentlemen?" 

"Well,  no,  not  quite,"  said  Hugh.  "Gentility  is 
more  than  skin-deep.  You  see,  it's  what  they  say  gen- 
erally." 

"But  if  they  are  deaf  and  dumb?"  suggested  "Me." 

"Then  it  would  be  what  they  think,"  answered  Hugh. 

"But  you  couldn't  tell  what  deaf-and-dumb  people 
think,"  said  "Me." 

"Then  it's  what  they  do,"  ventured  Hugh.  "Common 
people  do  common  things  and  gentle  people  do  gentle 
things,  and  if  you  put  fine  clothes  on  common  people 
they  are  still  common  people;  and  if  you  put  common 
clothes  on  gentle  people  they  are  still  gentle  people. 
The  boy  who  stood  on  the  burning  deck  was  dressed 
as  a  common  boy,  but  he  did  gentle  things,  so  he  was 
a  gentleman." 

Said  "Me":  "Mamma  says  that  angels  are  all  equal. 
If  common  people  can  be  angels,  then  angels  are  all 
common  people." 


FINE  FEATHERS  39 

Hugh  considered  sagely  and  then  said:  "It  takes  an 
uncommon  common  person  to  make  an  angel,  and  if  you 
go  through  Clapham  Common  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, you  will  find  that  all  the  commoners  are  uncom- 
monly common.  Besides  you  will  notice  that  fine  feathers 
make  turkey-cocks,"  and  Uncle  Hugh  giggled  as  though 
he  had  said  something  funny. 

Rebecca,  informed  by  Pointer,  strongly  disapproved 
of  the  dirty  boy  being  placed  in  the  carriage.  Common 
people  had  no  right  to  take  such  liberties  with  gentle- 
folk. This  puzzled  "Me"  greatly.  Here  was  Rebecca, 
a  common  person  herself,  quite  opposed  to  common 
people. 

"Are  you  a  common  person?"  asked  "Me." 

Rebecca  was  startled  but  admitted  that  she  was. 

"Don't  you  like  other  common  people?"  said  "Me." 

Rebecca  was  nonplussed.  Doubtfully  she  replied: 
"Yes." 

"Then  why  are  you  angry  with  the  little  common 
boy?" 

"I'm  not  angry,"  said  Rebecca,  "but  he  ought  to 
know  his  place." 

"What  is  his  place?"  said  "Me." 

"In  the  street,"  said  Rebecca. 

"Are  all  children  angels?"  asked  "Me." 

"Why,  of  course  they  are,"  said  Rebecca. 

"Then  if  the  dirty  boy  was  an  angel  they  would  have 
him  in  heaven,  wouldn't  they?"  said  "Me." 

"What  are  you  up  to?"  said  Rebecca  suspiciously, 
feeling  she  was  being  driven  into  a  corner. 

"And  if  they  would  have  him  in  heaven,  why  shouldn't 
mamma  have  him  in  the  carriage?" 

"You  are  too  clever  by  half,"  said  Rebecca,  finding 


40  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

herself  bereft  of  reasons.    "Besides   it's  time  you  went 
to  bed." 

"Is  Pointer  a  common  man  ?"  queried  "Me." 

"Well,  yes,  I  suppose  he  is,"  admitted  Rebecca. 

"He  was  angry  because  the  little  boy  was  put  in  the 
carriage,"  said  "Me." 

"I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  protested  Rebecca, 
hurrying  the  bedtime  disrobing  in  the  hope  of  divert- 
ing "Me's"  attention. 

What    kind    of   clothes    do    angels    wear?"    asked 


« 
"Me." 


Said  the  distracted  Rebecca:  "They  don't  wear 
clothes  at  all,  they  wear  robes." 

"Where  do  they  get  them  from  ?"  said  "Me." 

"How  do  I  know?"  cried  Rebecca,  quite  beside  her- 
self and  pressing  "Me's"  tooth-brush  on  him  in  the 
vain  hope  of  stopping  his  busy  mouth. 

"Is  everybody  equal  in  heaven?"  insisted  "Me." 

"I  suppose  so,"  sighed  Rebecca. 

"Then  you  won't  be  common  any  more  there,  will 
you?" 

"I  haven't  thought  about  it,"  said  Rebecca,  "and 
what's  more,  don't  you  ask  any  more  questions,"  and 
for  a  moment  "Me's"  head  was  hidden  in  his  night- 
gown. 

"What  makes  the  little  street  boy  common?"  said 
"Me,"  emerging. 

"I  suppose  he  was  born  common,"  said  Rebecca. 

"Do  all  common  people  come  from  God  ?" 

"Everybody  comes  from  God." 

"Was  he  common  before  he  came  from  God  ?" 

"How  could  he  be?" 

"Are  people  common  after  they  are  dead  ?" 


FINE  FEATHERS  41 

"Hush  1"  said  Rebecca.  "If  they  are  good,  of  course, 
they  are  not  common,  or  anything  else." 

"Then  all  buried  people  are  good  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  are  they  good  when  they  are  dead?" 

"Because  we  are  sorry  for  them." 

"Why  aren't  we  sorry  for  them  when  they  are 
alive?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  cried  Rebecca,  distracted. 

"I  suppose,"  reflected  "Me,"  "common  people  be- 
come ladies  and  gentlemen  when  they  are  buried."  It 
seemed  quite  evident  that  behavior  came  to  an  end  in 
the  churchyard.  There,  manners,  good  or  bad,  mattered 
not  at  all. 

"Are  they  buried  in  their  clothes?"  resumed  "Me." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Rebecca.  "You  get  into 
bed  at  once,  I've  had  enough  of  you." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  then!"  cried  "Me."  "When  they 
leave  off  their  clothes  that  makes  the  difference.  When 
do  people  begin  to  be  common  if  they  are  not  common 
before  they  are  born,  and  if  they  are  angels  when  they 
are  children,  and  if  they  stop  being  common  when  they 
are  dead  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Rebecca.  "Of  course, 
babies  are  not  common;  but  boys  and  girls  are,  and 
men  and  women  are.  But  when  people  are  dead  you 
don't  think  about  them  being  common — they  are  just 
dead — and  of  course,  people  in  heaven  all  become  dif- 
ferent." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  said  "Me."  "They  all  dress  alike, 
don't  they?" 

"Oh,  good  night!"  said  Rebecca. 

"Is  a  carpenter  a  gentleman?"  said  "Me." 


42  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Rebecca. 

"Jesus  was  a  carpenter,'*  said  "Me." 

By  this  time  "Me"  was  safely  in  bed  and  tucked  up 
tight. 

"You're  a  wicked  boy,"  said  Rebecca  in  an  awed 
voice,  "and  you  had  better  ask  to  be  forgiven,"  and  she 
turned  down  the  gas. 

"You  could  only  tell  that  little  boy  was  common  by 
his  clothes,"  said  "Me." 

"Go  to  sleep  at  once,"  said  Rebecca  crossly. 

"He  looked  like  a  gentleman  in  his  white  night- 
gown," said  "Me."  "You  couldn't  tell  the  difference 
when  mamma  kissed  him." 

Here  "Me's"  brother,  Sam,  aged  two,  woke  up,  and 
began  to  mutter  in  his  own  private  language,  at  the 
same  time  scowling  at  "Me"  for  disturbing  his  slum- 
bers. "Me"  felt  sure  he  was  saying  something  un- 
gentlemanly. 

"Don't  be  common!"  said  "Me,"  and  floated  away 
to  the  land  of  dreams. 


VI 
"TA" 

SARAH  TAME  was  my  brother's  nurse.  My  early  re- 
membrance of  her  was  that  of  a  tall,  rather  solemn  and 
majestic  woman.  I  had  as  it  were  to  throw  my  head 
back  to  see  her  face  when  I  spoke  to  her.  That  was 
forty-five  years  ago.  I  saw  her  in  London  a  while  since, 
and  find  that  she  is  a  very  small  person,  some  distance 
beneath  me.  I  can  distinctly  look  down  on  her.  There 
was  but  one  child  in  the  world  for  Sarah  Tame,  and 
Sarah  Tame  was  his  prophet.  She  used  to  call  my  brother 
The  Prince.  The  other  children  were  just  children.  My 
brother's  name  being  George,  my  father  naturally  called 
him  Sam,  and  with  equal  reason  Sam  addressed  himself 
as  "Ta."  He  would  never  say  as  ordinary  folk  do:  "I 
want  this  or  that."  He  would  say,  "'Ta'  wants  'TaV 
brexas,"  meaning  breakfast.  Sarah,  to  Sam,  was  "Kluk- 
lums."  There  are,  I  believe,  some  three  hundred  languages 
besides  Volapiik,  but  none  of  these  would  serve  Sam's 
purposes.  Those  of  us  who  had  his  interest  at  heart 
would  try  now  and  again  to  dissuade  him  from  persist- 
ing in  this  new  and  strange  speech.  Sam  would  never 
argue  about  it;  being  smaller  than  his  advisers,  he  had 
to  listen;  but  when  all  was  said  and  done  he  would  make 
some  remark  in  his  unknown  tongue,  at  which  one  could 
not  take  offense,  not  knowing  what  it  signified,  and  move 
off  about  some  important  business.  Never  was  there  a 
child  who  had  so  much  important  business  as  "Ta."  He 

43 


44  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

was  much  given  to  soliloquy.  It  was  rather  uncanny  to 
hear  him  talk  in  this  mysterious  lingo  to  himself.  Sarah 
was  the  only  one  who  understood  him.  It  was  as  if 
these  two  had  lived  in  some  previous  existence  and, 
meeting  on  this  planet,  communicated  in  a  tongue  which 
was  theirs  eons  ago,  on  Mars  perhaps.  Sarah  herself 
was  no  ordinary  woman;  she  walked  in  an  atmosphere 
of  impending  fate.  If  one  should  ask  her  to  get  a  pocket- 
handkerchief,  she  would  reply:  "I'll  get  it  if  I  die  on 
the  road."  This  was  her  customary  phrase  when  per- 
forming any  mission.  I  remember  feeling  somewhat 
awed  at  this  way  of  treating  a  simple  request,  as  though 
her  blood  would  be  on  my  head  should  death  overtake 
her  on  the  way.  "Ta"  and  "Kluklums"  persisted  in  this 
language  of  theirs  until  "Ta"  was  about  eight  years  of  age. 
Then  their  vocabulary  was  quite  a  formidable  one  and 
covered  all  the  usual  occasions  and  requirements  of  exist- 
ence. My  father  was  equal  to  the  emergency,  however, 
and  when  he  returned  to  England  one  day  after  a  couple 
of  seasons  in  America  he  quickly  perceived  the  pro- 
fundity of  "TaV  mind,  and  met  the  situation  by  invent- 
ing a  rival  language  on  the  spot.  He  adopted  some  of 
"Ta's"  words  but  broke  forth  in  a  multitude  of  new  ones. 
A  torrent  of  unfamiliar  talk  flowed  from  him  in  his  conver- 
sations with  "Ta"  and  "Kluklums"  which  overpowered 
them,  and  for  two  or  three  days  they  were  observed  in 
consultations  apart,  in  remote  corners  of  the  nursery,  the 
garden,  or  the  stable-yard.  "Ta"  seemed  frowning  and 
distraught  and  "Kluklums"  over  and  over  again  was  over- 
heard to  mutter,  "if  I  die  on  the  road."  From  that  time 
"Ta"  kept  his  secret  language  to  himself.  He  and  "  Kluk- 
lums" conversed  mostly  by  signs.  Their  affection  and 
their  understanding  remained  as  deep  as  ever,  but  no 


"TA"  45 

utterance  of  any  sort  was  permitted  to  attract  the  vulgar 
gaze.  When  they  met  after  a  separation  of  a  quarter 
of  a  century  quite  recently,  "The  Prince!"  said  Sarah. 
"Kluklums!"said"Ta." 

For  my  own  part,  now  in  my  mature  years,  I  believe 
that  "Ta"  came  to  us  with  a  message  which  he  was  not 
permitted  to  deliver.  Who  shall  say  that  he  was  not  a 
medium,  and  that  had  he  persisted  in  giving  out  those 
strange  sentences  which  welled  up  from  within  him,  we 
should  not  now  be  in  possession  of  secrets  which  are 
lost  to  us  forever  ?  Be  that  as  it  may,  "Ta"  always  was 
possessed  of  a  wisdom  not  very  evidently  of  this  world. 
He  seemed  always  to  have  sat  in  the  councils  of  the  great. 
Even  in  boyhood  graybeards  listened  to  him  with  rever- 
ence and  ancient  men  deferred  to  his  opinions. 

When  "Ta"  was  first  expected  on  this  planet,  I,  who 
was  then  seven  years  old,  was  informed  that  he  would 
one  morning  be  found  in  a  rhubarb-bed  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden  of  our  house,  "The  Cedars"  in  Kensington, 
London.  Consequently,  it  was  my  custom  to  observe 
this  rhubarb-bed  closely  for  any  signs  of  this  new  baby. 
My  reflections  were  not  at  all  amiable  toward  "Ta,"  as  I 
stood  day  after  day  and  contemplated  the  large  rhubarb- 
leaves.  I  did  not  think  I  quite  wanted  a  new  baby.  I 
couldn't  exactly  define  my  ideas  on  the  subject,  but  I 
was  distinctly  uneasy.  At  last  one  fine  day,  while  I  was 
staring  at  the  rhubarb,  I  was  told  that  "Ta"  had  arrived, 
and  I  was  invited  to  go  and  see  him.  I  was  so  angry  at 
the  deception  practised  upon  me,  for  "Ta"  had  been  born 
behind  my  back  as  it  were,  that  I  struggled  violently 
with  those  who  would  have  conducted  me  to  the  house. 
I  escaped  them  and  by  devious  ways  retired  to  a  secret 
retreat  of  mine  in  the  tool-shed  to  brood  over  my  wrongs. 


46  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

After  a  while  I  crept  up  to  the  house  and,  by  the  back 
stairs,  approached  the  room  wherein  lay  the  uncon- 
scious "Ta."  I  heard  sounds  of  wailing  from  within  and 
certain  tender  consolations  were  being  offered  which  had 
hitherto  been  my  sole  perquisite.  An  overwhelming 
sense  of  injury  seized  me,  and  the  undefined  animosity 
I  had  felt  while  watching  the  rhubarb-bed  found  vent 
in  howls  of  anguish  and  hangings  against  the  door  of 
the  room  wherein  my  rival  lay.  Anxious  people  came 
out  and  took  hold  of  me.  When  I  saw  "Ta"  my  outcry 
increased,  nothing  would  induce  me  to  go  near  him.  It 
was  a  long  time  before  my  mother,  by  tender  endear- 
ments, persuaded  me  to  first  endure,  then  pity,  then 
embrace  the  intruder,  and  at  last  to  sob  myself  asleep 
with  my  arms  about  her.  For  days  I  regarded  "Ta"  with 
suspicion.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  observed  me,  as  soon 
as  he  could  observe  anything,  with  stern  and  frowning 
toleration.  By  and  by  he  began  to  speak  in  this  new 
language  I  have  mentioned.  My  name  of  Eddie  he  re- 
duced to  D,  and  in  other  ways  he  seemed  to  belittle  me. 
He  seldom  smiled  and  never  cried,  was  quite  unsociable 
and,  as  I  have  said,  talked  a  great  deal  to  himself.  An 
uncomfortable  sense  of  "Ta's"  superiority  troubled  me. 
I  was  beginning  actually  to  hate  him,  when  an  event  oc- 
curred which  overcame  me  with  that  admiration  and 
respect  that  I  have  felt  for  him  ever  since. 

My  father  had  given  my  mother  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  in  Bank  of  England  notes.  These  notes  she  had 
placed  in  a  drawer  in  her  desk.  Shortly  afterward  my 
elder  brother,  Lytton,  entered  the  room  with  the  son  of 
a  neighbor  who  was  his  particular  and  constant  play- 
mate. These  two  were  unusual-looking  boys;  both 
very  handsome,  just  the  same  age,  about  seventeen. 


"TA"  47 

They  were  constantly  together.  When  my  mother  re- 
turned to  the  room,  my  brother  Lytton  and  his  friend, 
whose  name  was  Peters,  departed.  My  mother  opened 
the  drawer  to  get  money  for  her  household  bills,  and 
found  to  her  dismay  that  more  than  half  of  the  bank- 
notes had  gone.  My  father  was  called.  I  remember 
quite  well  the  excitement  that  followed.  My  father 
went  off  in  his  dog-cart  to  Scotland  Yard,  and  returned 
with  one  Detective  Micklejohn,  a  celebrated  sleuth  of 
the  time.  Everybody  in  the  house  was  examined;  the 
servants,  male  and  female,  the  latter  weeping  copiously 
because  they  were  suspected.  Of  course,  no  individual 
was  suspected.  The  whole  household,  however,  was 
searched.  "Ta"  and  myself  alone  were  exempt.  "Kluk- 
lums" was  examined  with  the  rest,  at  which  outrage 
"Ta"  made  some  occult  remarks  to  which  "Kluklums" 
replied  in  the  sign  language. 

Well,  Detective  Micklejohn  was  quite  baffled.  He 
could  find  no  clew  whatever.  He  had  dismissed  the 
servants  as  having  nothing  to  do  with  the  theft,  and 
had  for  the  moment  concentrated  his  attention  on  my 
brother  Lytton.  It  appeared  that  Lytton  had  gone 
to  the  drawer,  and  had  taken  out  the  bank-notes  and 
looked  at  so  much  wealth  with  some  awe,  and  then  re- 
placed the  money.  This  he  readily  told  the  detective. 
My  mother  was  in  tears  at  the  mere  idea  of  Lytton 
being  questioned.  My  father  stood  by,  puzzled  but 
stern.  The  men  and  women  servants  were  gathered  in 
a  nervous  crowd  in  the  passage  below.  "Ta"  and  I 
watched,  huddled  together  with  "Kluklums." 
"Thanks,"  said  Micklejohn,  "that's  all!" 
He  was  closeted  for  some  time  with  my  father  and 
then  departed.  We  heard  that  he  suspected  no  one  in 


48  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

the  house.  But  he  did;  he  suspected  my  brother,  Lytton, 
who  had  said  nothing  about  Peters  being  in  the  room 
when  he  looked  at  the  notes.  Peters  had  taken  the 
money,  and  he  went  about  spending  it  recklessly.  He 
looked  so  like  my  brother  Lytton  that  Micklejohn  got 
on  the  wrong  track  and  was  quite  convinced  that  Lytton 
was  the  spendthrift. 

He  came  to  tell  my  father  and  mother  his  opinion. 
My  mother  told  "Kluklums."  "Kluklums"  must  have 
communicated  by  wireless  (which  was  not  yet  invented) 
to  "Ta,"  for  that  remarkable  child  came  down  the  stairs 
from  his  nursery  chanting  a  favorite  chant  of  his  to  this 
effect: 

"Dordy  mady  iddy  far 
Iffoo  pindat  madat  dar 
Dordy  isso  tindadood 
Gidy  iddy  far  effood." 

Translated,  this  poem  reads: 

"God  He  made  the  little  fly; 
If  you  pinch  it,  it  will  die. 
God  He  is  so  kind  and  good, 
He  gives  the  little  fly  his  food." 

He  came  down  the  stairs  slowly  and  seemingly  un- 
moved. He  approached  Detective  Micklejohn,  who  was 
coming  out  of  the  room,  followed  by  my  weeping  mother 
and  my  frowning  father.  He  doubled  up  his  two  tiny 
fists  and  he  struck  that  large  policeman  several  rapid 
blows,  at  the  same  time  pronouncing  these  cryptic 
words:  "Dood  itto  dad  peepor."  Detective  Mickle- 
john laughed.  He  had  not  yet  solved  a  criminal  mys- 
tery out  of  the  mouths  of  babes. 


LYTTON    SOTHERN,    AGED    NINETEEN 


"TA"  49 

"What  does  he  say?"  said  Micklejohn. 

"Dood  itto  dad  peepor,"  reiterated  *'Ta." 

To  the  amazement  of  the  assembly,  "Kluklums"  cried 
out:  "I  knew  it!" 

"Knew  what?"  said  my  father. 

"Oh,  Sarah!"  wept  my  mother. 

"Ta,"  having  delivered  his  ultimatum,  was  now  try- 
ing to  catch  a  fly  on  the  window-pane  and  chanting: 

"Dordy  mady  iddy  far " 


"I  see  the  child  speaks  French,"  said  Micklejohn. 

"Iffoo  pindat  madat  dar." 

"I  knew  it!"  cried  Sarah. 

"Speak,  woman!"  said  my  father. 

"Dood  titto  dad  peepor,"  said  Sarah. 

"She  also  speaks  French,"  said  the  astute  Micklejohn. 

"Nonsense!"  cried  my  father  impatiently.  "This 
is  the  child's  babble  that  no  one  but  Sarah  can  under- 
stand. The  woman  is  a  second  Rosetta  Stone." 

In  his  excitement,  my  father  shook  Sarah,  who,  weep- 
ing, murmured:  "Dood  titto  dad  peepor.  Oh,  master, 
'Ta!'  I  knew  it!" 

"Sarah,"  said  my  father,  "if  you  don't  tell  me  at 
once  what  you  mean  I  will  bite  your  left  ear." 

This  startling  threat  sobered  Sarah  instantly. 

"What  do  those  words  mean?"  cried  my  father. 

"They  mean,"  said  Sarah,  "good  Lytton,  bad 
Peters/  that's  what  it  means,  if  I  die  on  the  road." 

"Who's  Peters?"  said  Micklejohn. 

"My  son's  friend  who  is  always  with  him,"  said  my 
mother. 

"Iffoo  pindat  madat  da,"  sang  "Ta"  at  the  window. 


So  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Does  he  look  like  your  son  ?"  said  the  sleuth,  hot  on 
the  trail. 

"Yes,  they  are  both  very  handsome,"  said  my  mother. 

"Dordy  isso  tindadood,"  crooned  "Ta,"  killing  a  fly 
on  the  pane. 

"Call  me  a  cab,"  hissed  the  detective. 

"That  child's  intelligence  is  unnatural,"  said  my 
mother. 

"He  takes  after  me,"  said  my  father. 

"Gidy  iddy  fa  ifood,"  muttered  "Ta,"  cornering  an- 
other fly. 

That  night  as  Peters  was  treating  a  crowd  of  foolish 
people  at  a  bar,  Micklejohn  hit  him  a  heavy  smack  on 
the  shoulder  and  said  quickly:  "Give  me  that  money 
you  took  from  Mrs.  Sothern's  desk." 

The  wretched  boy  fell  to  the  ground  in  a  faint,  and 
was  brought  to  our  house  in  handcuffs.  He  confessed 
everything.  My  mother  wept  over  him;  my  father 
grew  hysterical  as  he  embraced  his  own  boy,  Lytton. 
No  one  but  our  own  household  ever  knew  of  the  theft 
or  of  the  redemption  of  the  foolish  purloiner.  His  own 
people  never  knew.  In  my  mother's  arms,  he  under- 
went a  change  of  heart  which  I  know  lasted  for  his  life. 

But  "Ta"  would  never  make  friends  with  him — never ! 
He  invariably  called  him  "Dad  peepor,"  until  the  lan- 
guage of  "Ta"  and  "Kluklums"  was  numbered  among 
those  tongues  that  are  dead. 

How  "Ta"  reached  his  conclusions  concerning  the  real 
culprit  has  never  been  known.  "Ta"  himself,  now  that  he 
has  emerged  far  beyond  the  shadowland  of  childhood, 
can  recall  nothing  of  his  mental  processes  at  that  time. 
In  fact,  he  remembers  nothing  about  it,  save  what  I  tell 
him. 


'THE    CEDARS,       LONDON 


"TA"  51 

With  "Kluklums"  it  is  different.  To  her  "Ta"  was 
and  is  a  being  of  a  different  clay  from  that  from  which 
ordinary  Londoners  are  made.  In  some  other  world  than 
this,  perhaps  about  the  time  of  the  Pharaohs  I  myself  be- 
lieve that  "Ta"  was  a  prince.  To  "Kluklums"  "Ta"  is 
a  prince  here  and  now. 


VII 
PRIVATE  AND  UNEXPECTED 

IT  was  "Ta's"  birthday  and  arrangements  had  been 
made  whereby  he  was  to  send  out  his  own  invitations, 
to  select  his  own  guests,  to  create  the  menu  himself. 

Fanny  Marsh  was  consulted  in  secret.  Much  whisper- 
ing occurred  between  "Kluklums"  and  the  "Prince." 
Certain  epistles  were  penned  and  posted;  replies  re- 
ceived and  conned  apart.  Garments  were  considered, 
hair  was  curled,  and  at  length  the  day  arrived  on  which 
the  favored  guests  should  assemble.  It  had  been  ex- 
pected by  "Ta's"  parents  that  children  contiguous  and 
adjacent  would  be  invited,  but  such  was  not  the  case 
at  all.  "Ta"  had  arranged  that  the  banquet  should  be 
served  for  two  persons  only,  and  had  not  divulged  who 
the  solitary  guest  would  be.  The  preparations  were 
quite  extraordinary,  and  the  resources  of  "Ta's"  parents' 
establishment  were  taxed  to  their  extreme  limit.  For 
example,  the  carriage  could  not  be  used  that  day,  be- 
cause Pointer  had  been  persuaded  to  wait  on  the 
table. 

Pointer  had  protested  that  he  was  unskilled  in  waiting. 
At  this  "Ta"  had  wept  copiously,  and  had  declared 
that  skill  mattered  not  at  all.  The  thing  was  for  Pointer 
to  be  present  and  since  he  could  not  bring  his  horse  and 
carriage  into  the  dining-room  he  must  assist  without 
such  impedimenta. 

The  gardener,  also,  dressed  in  becoming  Sunday  gear, 

52 


PRIVATE  AND  UNEXPECTED  53 

was  on  hand,  miserable  and  conscious  of  his  hands  and 
feet.  He  also  was  to  wait  at  table.  "Kluklums"  was 
to  be  throned  in  a  corner  of  the  room  and  to  look  on. 
"Ta"  had  wanted  her  to  sit  at  the  table  but  a  sombre 
prediction  of  her  death  on  the  road  had  at  length  rec- 
onciled him  to  "  Kluklums  V  suggestion  that  she  should 
be  seated  in  a  remote  nook. 

The  hour  arrived — three  o'clock  on  an  April  day. 
The  expected  guest  was  late  and  "Ta's"  spirit  chafed, 
finding  vent  in  sundry  incomprehensible  utterances. 
The  favored  child,  whoever  he  or  she  might  be,  no  doubt 
had  to  come  from  a  distance;  the  carriage  had  shed  a 
wheel,  or  had  encountered  an  omnibus,  or  there  was  a 
mistake  in  the  day,  or  perhaps  in  the  hour,  or  the  little 
friend  was  taken  ill. 

The  grown-up  people  in  the  house  waited  with  more 
or  less  patience,  mildly  wondering  what  particular  play- 
fellow "Ta"  had  so  signally  honored  as  to  select  him  or 
her  alone  as  his  birthday  company. 

"Ta"  sat  at  his  table  in  solitary  state.  Linen  and 
flowers  and  plate  and  birthday  presents  made  a  pleasing 
and  exciting  scene.  Pointer,  horseless,  bandy-legged 
and  redolent  of  stables,  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the 
other  with  foolish  unrest.  The  gardener  made  some  ex- 
tremely rural  attempts  at  conversation  such  as,  "Them 
geraniums  is  pretty  backward,  ain't  they?"  or  "It's 
time  to  burn  that  tobacco  in  the  green  'ouse,"  or  "This 
'ere  rain's  a  fine  thing  for  them  there  tulips." 

Not  a  soul  responded  to  these  efforts  and  the  gardener 
was  reduced  to  looking  at  his  hands  with  a  kind  of  won- 
der as  if  he  had  never  seen  them  before,  and  was  now 
speculating  as  to  what  could  possibly  be  their  use,  where 
they  had  come  from,  and  how  he  should  get  rid  of  them. 


54  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Suddenly  the  door-bell  rang.  The  gardener  clapped 
his  hands;  Pointer  said:  "Now  we're  off!"  "Kluklums" 
muttered  "I  knew  it." 

"Ta"  stood  upon  his  chair. 

"Ta's"  mother  and  father  and  sister  and  brother, 
hearing  the  guest  had  come,  went  into  the  hall  to  greet 
him  or  her,  curiosity  as  to  whose  little  child  it  might  be 
having  reached  quite  a  climax. 

The  front  door  opened  and  to  everybody's  amazement 
there  stood  no  child  at  all,  but  a  very  beautiful  and  dis- 
tinguished actress  on  whom  "Ta,"  all  unsuspected,  had 
bestowed  his  affections,  who  had  received  the  only  in- 
vitation to  the  party  and  who  now,  radiant  and  glorious, 
was  poised,  angel-like,  upon  the  door-step. 

With  much  laughter,  and  much  swishing  of  silks,  and 
much  brushing  of  wisps  of  golden  hair  away  from  shin- 
ing eyes,  the  lovely  lady  floated  into  the  dining-room. 
It  had  been  distinctly  understood  that  not  one  of  the 
family  should  attend  this  party.  Save  for  the  presence 
of  enthroned  "Kluklums,"  it  was  to  be  a  party  of  two. 
When  the  suggestion  had  been  made  that  "Ta"  should 
have  the  sole  say  as  to  his  birthday  feast,  naturally  a 
notable  gathering  of  little  ones  was  expected;  but  when 
he  had  insisted  upon  this  strange  arrangement  that  there 
should  be  only  one  invitation  issued,  it  had  been  ac- 
cepted with  proper  seriousness.  Especially  had  "Ta" 
declared  that  he  and  his  favorite  should  dine  alone. 
Therefore,  all  hands  now  withdrew  while  "Ta"  greeted 
his  guest.  The  door  was  closed  save  for  the  entry  of 
viands,  and  for  an  hour  or  more  "Ta"  made  no  sign. 
No  word  came  to  the  outside  world  as  to  how  things 
progressed  within  the  banquet  hall.  Pointer  and  the 
gardener  flitted  between  the  kitchen  and  the  table  in 


From  a  photograph  taken  at  "  The  Cedars  " 

EDWARD    A.    SOTHERN    IN    1863 


PRIVATE  AND  UNEXPECTED  55 

melancholy  state,  looking  foolishly  unused  to  indoor 
ceremonies  and  offering  no  word  of  comment  on  the 
proceedings. 

At  length  the  meal  was  ended.  Pointer  and  the  gar- 
dener withdrew,  and  for  a  space  silence  reigned.  Then 
a  howl  of  agony  came  from  the  recesses  of  the  dining- 
room.  Shriek  after  shriek  of  wailing  and  of  weeping. 

"Ta's"  relations  rushed  to  the  scene  to  find  the  beau- 
tiful actress  with  her  arms  about  him,  trying  to  soothe 
him,  to  comfort  him,  to  glean  from  him  what  grief  over- 
whelmed him.  For  five  minutes  at  least  no  syllable 
could  be  gathered  from  inconsolable  "Ta." 

"What  is  the  matter?"  cried  "Ta's"  mother. 

"Booh-hoo-hoo!"  howled  "Ta,"  his  knuckles  goug- 
ing out  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  said  "Ta's"  father  to  the  beautiful 
actress. 

"I  can't  imagine,"  said  the  glorious  creature.  She 
then  related  that  "Ta"  had  maintained  an  impenetrable 
silence  during  the  entire  entertainment,  that  he  had 
eaten  no  food  although  pressed  thereto  by  Pointer  and 
the  gardener,  that  he  had  persisted  in  sucking  his  thumb 
and  scowling  in  a  most  uninviting  and  inhospitable 
manner,  that  she  had  used  all  her  arts  and  fascination 
to  try  and  break  down  "Ta's"  most  churlish  humor, 
and  that  at  last  he  had  all  of  a  sudden  let  out  that  yell 
which  had  alarmed  the  house  and  had  plunged  himself 
into  that  inexplicable  grief  which  they  were  now  con- 
templating. 

"Stop  it!  "cried  "Ta's"  father. 

"What  is  the  matter,  darling?"  cried  "Ta's"  mother. 

"Perhaps  you  can  explain  it,  Sarah,"  and  the  anxious 
crowd  turned  to  "Kluklums"  in  her  corner. 


56  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Not  if  I  die  on  the  road,"  said  that  inconsequent 
woman. 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  cried  "Ta's"  father,  shaking 
him  with  impatience,  "What's  the  matter?  Is  it  a  pain 
of  some  sort — toothache,  stomachache,  earache  ?  Tell 
us  what's  the  matter?" 

"I  wanted  a  party,"  wept  "Ta." 

"Well,  you  have  one,  haven't  you?"  said  "Ta's" 
mother. 

"Yes,"  wept  "Ta,"  "but  then— boo-hoo ! " 

"Well,  but  what?" 

"Why,  I  thought  things  would  happen  and  they 
didn't." 

"What  things?"  said  the  lovely  actress. 

"What  things?"  said  "Ta's"  mother. 

"Yes,  what  things?"  cried  "Ta's"  father. 

"Something  private  and  unexpected,"  wept  "Ta." 

"Private  and  unexpected?"  echoed  the  others. 
"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Ta"  did  not  know  what  he  meant,  but  the  fact  was 
that  this  long  anticipated  meeting  had  by  no  means  ful- 
filled expectations.  There  had  been  no  games,  no  romp- 
ing about,  no  story-telling;  the  beautiful  lady  had  talked 
platitudes  and,  with  very  evident  effort,  had  tried  to 
make  conversation.  "Ta"  could  not  take  any  interest 
in  what  she  had  said  nor  find  a  responsive  chord  which 
he  could  strike.  He  had  ventured  one  or  two  remarks 
but  soon  was  dismayed  to  find  his  sources  of  small  talk 
frozen.  The  pretty  lady  babbled  away,  quite  believing 
that  she  was  delightful  and  amusing,  but  her  prattle 
was  so  much  Greek  to  "Ta."  Minute  by  minute  the 
feast  sped  by,  and  one  sweet  illusion  after  another  van- 
ished into  air.  Here  was  no  playfellow,  no  comrade, 


PRIVATE  AND  UNEXPECTED  57 

only  a  grown-up  person  who  laboriously  talked  non- 
sense. What  was  there  to  do  but  weep,  to  lift  up  one's 
voice  in  protest  and  despair?  "Boo-hoo-hoo!" 

This  most  playful  and  fascinating  Rosalind,  this 
romping  and  most  understanding  tomboy  of  the  last 
pantomime,  was  nothing  but  a  grown-up  female  in- 
capable of  games  and  who  criticised  one's  cold  in  the 
head,  advised  concerning  one's  finger-nails,  inquired 
after  one's  progress  at  school,  and  seemed  to  have  no 
conception  whatever  of  Indians,  cowboys,  and  pirates. 
This  was  the  public  and  expected  behavior  of  all  grown- 
up people.  The  private  and  the  unexpected  so  fondly 
anticipated,  yet  so  undefined  and  impalpable,  a  very 
cobweb  of  the  fancy,  something  woven  from  limelight 
and  forest  glades,  and  music  and  dancing  feet  and 
laughter  and  sweet  nothings,  of  strings  of  sausages 
filched  by  the  mischievous  clown,  of  battered  police- 
men, of  Pantaloon  finding  a  red-hot  poker  in  his  pocket, 
of  Columbine  and  Harlequin,  all — all  had  vanished  in 
this  commonplace  talk.  What  should  one  do  but  weep  ? 
"Boo-hoo!" 

The  pretty  lady  was,  however,  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"Private  and  unexpected?"  cried  she.  "Then  here 
we  go!"  and  catching  up  her  frock  she  began  to  dance 
a  hornpipe — that  very  hornpipe  which  the  tomboy 
in  the  pantomime  had  danced  when  informed  that  his 
wicked  uncle  had  been  eaten  by  a  dragon,  and  that  in- 
stead of  being  a  poor  newsboy  he  was  the  long-lost  child 
of  the  Emperor.  That  disclosure  had  gone  at  once  to 
his  ten  toes,  and  he  had  danced  like  mad  for  as  many 
minutes.  And  like  mad  did  he  now  dance  in  a  truly 
private  and  unexpected  manner,  and  "Ta"  stopped 
crying  and  began  to  laugh  and  to  jump  up  and  down 


58  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

and  when,  for  a  climax,  the  lovely  lady  actually  turned 
a  handspring  and  sat  on  the  floor,  breathless  but  bubbling 
with  laughter,  life  began  to  seem  reasonable  once  more. 
"Ta"  has  passed  a  number  of  birthdays  since  that 
fifth  birthday,  but  never  has  anything  happened  quite 
so  entirely  private  and  unexpected  as  this.  That  tom- 
boy is  a  very  old  lady  now,  and  no  doubt  her  dancing 
days  are  over.  Maybe,  however,  she  will  read  these 
lines  and  remember. 


VIII 
"RASHER" 

THE  friendship  of  "Me"  and  the  jam-faced  boy  might 
have  pursued  its  calm  and  Arcadian  course  until  cemented 
by  the  experiences  and  trials  of  manhood  had  it  not  been 
that  Fate  the  fiddler  had  injected,  for  some  purpose  of 
its  own,  a  volcanic  element  in  the  person  of  a  new  and 
unexpected  cousin  of  "Me,"  the  child  of  "Me's"  mother's 
sister.  "Me"  had  recently  made  the  acquaintance  of 
those  seven  devils  which  were  turned  into  the  herd  of 
swine,  and  caused  them  to  run  down  a  steep  place  into 
the  sea.  A  short  experience  of  this  new  cousin  convinced 
"Me"  that  these  same  seven  evil  spirits  had  entered  into 
the  frame  of  this  entirely  superfluous  red-headed  Irish 
infant  who  now  came,  or  rather  erupted,  on  the  scene. 

The  parents  of  this  terrible  creature,  being  extremely 
poor,  were  on  their  way  to  Australia  where  the  father, 
an  Irish  physician,  hoped  to  find  fortune  more  kind. 
The  father,  mother,  and  eight  children  arrived  at  "Me's" 
house  one  afternoon  to  partake  of  tea  and  discuss  the 
prospects  of  their  emigration  with  "Me's"  mother. 
The  devil-possessed  boy  with  red  hair  was  the  only  male 
child.  Seven  very  beautiful  and  ever-smiling  sisters 
did  not  suffice  to  keep  the  evil  one  from  perpetual  up- 
roar, or  from  a  silence  ominous  and  portentous  of  ill. 

Tea  time  and  the  family  from  Ireland  arrived.  The 
table  groaned  with  specially  prepared  cakes  and  dainties, 
and  "Me's"  mother  hovered  angel-like  over  the  cere- 

59 


60  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

mony.  When  the  elders  had  been  served:  "What  will 
you  have?"  said  "Me's"  mother  to  the  one  of  seven 
devils. 

"Rasher!"  cried  the  possessed. 

"Rasher?"  said  "Me's"  mother.  "What  does  the 
child  mean  ?" 

"No,  no!"  said  his  own  mother.  "Cake,  beautiful 
cake;  you  must  have  cake." 

"Rasher!"  again  cried  the  red-headed  infant. 

Said  his  father:  "He  means  bacon.  He  wants  bacon." 
Then  to  the  child  sternly:  "There  is  no  bacon  on  the 
table,  you  must  eat  cake." 

"Rasher!"  howled  the  son  of  Satan,  "Rasher!"  and 
began  to  weep  tears  of  rage,  and  screw  two  stained  fists 
into  his  eyes,  and  to  squirm  in  a  fearful  manner  on  his 
chair. 

"He  can  have  'rasher'  if  he  wants  it,"  said  "Me's" 
mother. 

"No,"  said  the  father  of  the  imp,  "he  shall  not  have 
'rasher/  He  shall  eat  cake  or  eat  nothing!"  and  he 
placed  a  large  piece  of  cake  on  "Rasher's"  plate — for 
"Rasher"  he  was  called  by  us  from  this  moment. 
"Rasher's"  father  was  a  man  of  small  ceremony,  and 
he  gave  "Rasher"  a  clout  on  the  head  at  the  same  mo- 
ment that  he  helped  him  to  cake,  thus  illustrating  the 
fact  that  good  fortune  is  closely  attended  by  ill. 

"Rasher"  refused  to  eat  the  cake.  His  seven  lovely 
sisters  smiled  upon  him;  "Me's"  mother  said  he  was 
a  darling;  his  own  mother  begged  him  to  be  good.  "Me" 
and  his  small  sister  and  brother  gazed  in  open-eyed  won- 
der and  some  fear  at  the  fiery-haired  newcomer.  Sullen, 
silent,  lowering,  "Rasher"  seemed  to  use  up  the  cake. 
"Me,"  who  was  quite  fascinated  by  him,  observed  that 


"RASHER"  61 

not  a  single  crumb  passed  "Rasher's"  lips.  The  other 
children  eagerly  stuffed  themselves  with  the  feast.  Their 
elders  forgot  "Rasher"  in  serious  contemplation  of  the 
future  and  of  the  expedition  to  the  antipodes.  "Me's" 
mother  told  him  after  a  while  to  ring  the  bell,  which 
caused  "Me"  to  pass  near  "Rasher's"  chair.  Amid 
the  uproar  of  the  general  talk,  he  heard  "Rasher"  say 
in  a  low,  horrid  tone:  "I'm  rubbin'  it  into  the  floor,  I 
am !  I'm  rubbin'  it  into  the  floor,"  and  sure  enough  he 
had  dropped  the  sticky  plum  cake,  morsel  by  morsel, 
onto  the  carpet,  and  with  one  small  leg  stretched  out, 
was  crushing  the  mess  into  the  rug. 

"Me"  told  his  mother,  and  a  general  examination 
brought  down  on  "Rasher"  such  a  chorus  of  denuncia- 
tion as  would  have  caused  any  honest  boy  to  blink. 
Not  so  "Rasher."  He  was  a  hardened  criminal.  He 
stood  stolid  and  determined  on  other  evil  courses. 

"Go  in  the  corner!"  cried  his  father.  "Stand  in  the 
corner  and  don't  dare  to  move  until  I  forgive  you,"  and 
he  lifted  the  horrible  urchin  bodily  into  the  shameful 
niche. 

Shortly  the  tea-party  broke  up,  and  all  hands  ad- 
journed to  the  drawing-room.  "Me"  lingered  behind, 
fascinated  by  "Rasher's"  daring  and  lawbreaking 
spirit.  He  approached  fearfully  to  where  the  wicked 
boy  stood  in  durance.  To  his  horror  he  heard  "Rasher" 
muttering  under  his  breath,  constantly,  unceasingly, 
venomously,  rapidly,  these  awful  words:  "Damn  devil! 
Damn  devil!  Damn  devil!"  over  and  over  again,  his 
face  close  to  the  corner  of  the  wall.  Such  abandonment 
to  sin  had  never  entered  into  "Me's"  domain  before. 
He  crept  abashed  from  the  room.  Evil-doers  surely  find 
great  gratification  in  the  breaking  of  commandments 


62  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

and  the  rebellious  "Rasher"  glutted  his  anger  and  fed 
his  sullen  soul  by  muttering  "Damn  devil!"  for  a  full 
half-hour. 

When  his  father  suddenly  concluded  it  was  time  to 
forgive  him,  "Me"  was  deputed  to  convey  the  glad 
tidings  to  "Rasher."  With  some  trepidation  he  ap- 
proached the  culprit  who  still  stood  obstinately  in  the 
corner.  As  "Me"  drew  near  he  observed  that  "Rasher" 
was  engaged  in  stamping  more  cake  into  the  carpet, 
and  varied  the  ejaculations  of  "Damn  devil!"  with 
the  baleful  assertion,  "I'm  rubbin'  it  into  the  floor,  I 
am!" 

"You  are  forgiven,"  said  "Me."    "Come  up-stairs." 

"Hell!"  said  "Rasher,"  and,  pronouncing  this  terrible 
word,  he  marched  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  seven  sisters  endeavored  to  shower  him  with  en- 
dearments, but  he  squirmed  and  resisted  and  kept  to 
himself. 

By  and  by  "Me"  learned  that  the  jam-faced  boy  was 
below,  and  asked  to  be  allowed  to  go  and  play  with  him. 

"Yes,"  said  "Me's"  mother,  "and  you  shall  take 
dear  'Rasher*  to  play  with  you." 

"Me"  took  "Rasher's"  unwilling  hand  and  con- 
ducted him  to  the  nursery.  Shortly  the  jam-faced  lad 
appeared.  "Me"  received  him  with  affection  but  was 
distracted  to  observe  that  a  fierce  enmity  immediately 
flamed  up  between  "Rasher"  and  his  lowly  friend. 
Several  games  were  begun  and  abandoned;  "Rasher" 
would  take  no  part,  until  "Me"  suggested  "Indians." 
Here  "Rasher"  pricked  up  his  ears.  Much  tracking  of 
foes  by  their  footmarks  and  scalping  of  slain  redskins 
followed,  when  "Rasher"  suggested  burning  captives  at 
the  stake.  The  idea  was  greeted  with  acclamation  and 


"RASHER"  63 

shortly,  after  a  great  conflict,  "Me"  and  his  jam-faced 
friend  were  bound  securely  to  the  rocking-horse.  Now 
"Rasher"  exhibited  a  very  terrible  and  ferocious  glee. 
He  piled  newspapers  and  picture-books  about  the  feet 
of  his  victims,  who,  meanwhile,  depicted  proper  and 
historical  stoicism.  What  was  their  terror,  however, 
when  "Rasher"  lighted  a  match  and  set  fire  to  the  news- 
papers; then,  screaming  with  hideous  laughter,  ran 
from  the  room  and  slammed  and  locked  the  door ! 

"Me"  and  the  jam-faced  one  yelled  and  cried  for  help, 
while  "Rasher"  laughed  and  laughed  outside  the  door. 
The  two  bound  to  the  rocking-horse  struggled  as  might 
Mazeppa  have  done  to  free  themselves,  and  managed 
to  drag  the  wooden  steed  to  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
The  paper  blazed  furiously  and  inevitably  would  have 
set  fire  to  the  house  had  not  "Rasher's"  unholy  re- 
joicing been  heard  below  and  the  whole  household  been 
brought  hotfoot  to  the  scene. 

A  vast  confusion  followed.  The  flames  were  ex- 
tinguished with  rugs,  and  "Rasher"  was  then  and  there 
beaten  by  his  father  until  he  howled  with  pain.  "Me" 
and  his  friend  were  pale  with  dread  and  trembled  with 
excitement.  This  was  playing  "Indians"  with  a  ven- 
geance. 

"Me's"  mother  begged  that  "Rasher"  should  be 
taken  away  at  once  to  Australia,  which  continent  "Me" 
was  relieved  to  remember  was  on  the  extreme  other  side 
of  the  world.  His  father  took  charge  of  him.  His  whole 
family,  weeping  and  protesting  and  berating,  went  their 
way,  never  to  be  seen  by  "Me"  again. 

"Rasher"  became  a  mounted  policeman  in  Aus- 
tralia. No  doubt  it  takes  a  "Rasher"  to  catch  a 
"Rasher." 


64  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

The  budding  friendship  between  the  jam-faced  boy 
and  "Me"  was  alas!  uprooted,  for  never  was  that  hum- 
ble child  allowed  to  play  more  in  such  alarming  com- 
pany. Thus  the  evil  that  "Rasher"  did  lived  after  him. 
Certainly  no  good  will  be  interred  with  his  bones. 


IX 
"THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES " 

UNCLE  HUGH  sat  in  the  sunlight  smoking  a  large 
cigar.  His  eyes  were  closed,  but  it  was  very  evident 
that  he  was  awake,  for  smoke  came  from  him  in  great 
blue  clouds  as  though  he  were  a  man-of-war. 

"Me"  approached  with  much  joyful  noise  but  was 
surprised  when  Uncle  Hugh  raised  his  arm  in  admonition 
and  said:  "Hush!  Listen!" 

There  was  no  sound.  The  day  was  calm,  the  garden 
was  silent. 

"What  is  it?"  whispered  "Me,"  prepared  for  the 
attack  of  savages  from  any  quarter. 

"Hush!"  repeated  Uncle  Hugh,  his  eyes  still  closed. 
"I  am  singing." 

"Singing!"  murmured  "Me,"  much  mystified. 

"Sit  on  the  grass,"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  "close  your  eyes 
tight.  Keep  quite  still  and  listen  to  the  music  of  the 
Spheres." 

"Me"  did  as  he  was  told,  but  heard  no  sound.  "Who 
are  the  Spheres  ?"  he  queried  after  a  while,  with  a  vague 
notion  that  they  were  of  the  "Christy  Minstrel"  family, 
"and  what  do  they  sing?" 

"The  most  wonderful  music  in  the  world,"  said  Uncle 
Hugh. 

"I  can  hear  nothing,"  said  "Me." 

"No,  that's  just  it,"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  "you  can't  hear 
it,  you  only  feel  it.  Hush !  Let  us  sit  still  without  wink- 
ing, while  we  count  a  thousand  and  nineteen  and  a  half. 

6s 


66  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Now,"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  when  the  mystic  number 
was  completed,  "now,  we  are  all  right  again.  When- 
ever you  are  worried  and  can't  see  your  way  out,  close 
your  eyes  and  listen,  listen  to  the  music  of  the  Spheres." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  it  ?"  said  "Me." 

Uncle  Hugh  did  not  reply  for  quite  a  while,  then  he 
said:  "Yes,  once  or  twice  at  sea,  at  night." 

"What  was  it  like?"  said  "Me,"  a  general  idea  of 
hand-organs  and  penny  whistles  and  anthems  in  his 
cranium. 

Said  Uncle  Hugh,  after  another  pause:  "I  don't  quite 
know.  I  think  it  feels  like  pity  and  love  and — yes,  it 
feels  like  hunger,  too." 

This  was  very  strange  talk,  and  for  a  long  time  "Me" 
did  not  understand. 

"The  difficulty  is  this,"  continued  Uncle  Hugh,  "we  all 
talk  too  much.  Two  people  cannot  meet  without  talking 
— talking  continually — at  all  costs  they  must  keep  it  up. 
If  they  stop  for  a  moment  they  are  wretched  and  dis- 
concerted. We  talk  so  constantly  that  we  can't  think. 
You  will  notice  that  the  animals  don't  talk,  yet  they 
communicate.  They  rejoice,  they  sorrow.  I  tell  you  we 
stunt  our  intelligence  by  so  much  talking.  Sit  still  now 
and  then  and  listen,  and  you  will  learn  strange  things." 

Left  to  himself,  "Me"  considered  deeply.  Frequently 
thereafter  would  he  sit  by  the  fountain  in  the  garden 
and,  sure  enough,  in  due  time  the  world  opened  its 
lips  and  sang,  and  "Me"  lifted  up  his  voice  in  the  silence 
and  sang,  and  the  rhubarb-bed,  and  the  huge  black 
cedar-tree,  and  the  splashing  water,  and  the  green  grass, 
— they  all  sang.  And  the  "Sphere  family"  would  come 
floating  across  the  lawns  singing  the  most  wonderful 
songs  in  words  quite  different  from  any  words  yet  in- 


"THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES"         67 

troduced  into  "Me's"  vocabulary  either  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Snelling  or  any  one  else;  but  all  the  same  quite 
easily  understood  and  telling  of  things  never  heard  of 
before  and  yet  entirely  familiar.  And  the  curious  thing 
was  that  you  did  not  want  to  tell  these  experiences  to 
anybody,  because  it  was  as  clear  as  day  that  if  you  ut- 
tered them  in  words  they  would  cease  to  be. 

Then,  too,  there  was  another  thing  about  it.  You 
were  quite  sure  that  these  songs  were  sung  to  you  in 
confidence,  not  to  be  repeated  to  anybody  ever.  That 
was  why  the  language  was  no  language,  and  why  you 
felt  rather  shy  and  almost  guilty  when  somebody  would 
say:  "A  penny  for  your  thoughts."  A  penny,  indeed! 
Why,  you  wouldn't  sell  them  for  a  thousand  pennies, 
for  you  had  a  curious  certainty  that  as  they  passed  your 
lips  they  would  turn  into  ashes.  They  would  die,  fade 
as  the  leaves  of  the  flowers  when  summer  has  spoken. 
All  this  was  a  little  puzzling  and  rather  like  living  two 
distinct  lives  and  having  two  sets  of  acquaintances  who 
were  not  on  each  other's  visiting  lists.  Thus,  wordless 
thoughts  and  silent  songs  found  sanctuary  in  the  mind 
of  "Me."  Thither  would  they  come  speeding  in  the 
most  unexpected  manner,  bursting  open  the  doors  and 
rushing  in  as  though  they  were  escaping  from  the  noise 
and  turmoil  of  the  world;  snuggling  up  in  this  quiet 
corner  to  rest  in  the  shade  and  saying  to  "Me"  in  the 
language  which  was  no  language: 

Listen!  Listen!  while  we  sing,  or  while  we  deliver 
you  our  message.  We  are  worn  out  seeking  shelter,  for 
the  earth  is  so  full  of  noise. 

"Why  do  those  two  men  shout  so  at  each  other?" 
inquired  "Me"  of  Uncle  Hugh  one  day,  concerning  two 


68  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

men  in  the  street  who  were  not  more  than  six  inches 
apart  but  who  were  yelling  as  though  they  were,  each 
of  them,  on  a  separate  and  distant  mountain. 

"They  are  shouting,"  replied  Uncle  Hugh,  "so  as  to 
conceal  from  each  other  what  they  are  thinking  about." 

"But  if  they  don't  want  to  tell  what  they  think,  why 
do  they  talk  at  all?"  asked  "Me." 

"If  they  don't  talk,"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  "each  is  afraid 
the  other  will  consider  him  unintelligent  or,  perhaps, 
unkind,  and  they  believe  that  the  louder  they  talk  the 
more  they  disguise  the  fact  that  they  really  have  not 
anything  to  say;  so  they  shout  the  thing  they  don't 
mean  and  don't  want  to  say  in  order  that  each  one  shall 
be  persuaded  that  the  other  does  mean  and  does  want 
to  say  it." 

"And  are  they  persuaded?"  asked  "Me." 

"Not  at  all!"  said  Uncle  Hugh.  "Wait  here  and 
listen  to  what  they  say  when  they  part.  You  stand 
there,  I'll  stand  here. 

"Well?"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  when  he  and  "Me"  joined 
forces  again,  "what  did  your  man  say  after  he  left  the 
other  shouting:  'Happy  days'  ?  " 

Said  "Me":  "He  muttered,  'Fool!'  " 

"Ha!"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  "he  was  saying  what  he 
thought.  My  man,  who  left  calling  out,  '  Be  good,'  said 
between  his  teeth:  'Liar!' ' 

"How  awful!"  said  "Me." 

"I  told  you,"  commented  Uncle  Hugh,  "everybody 
talks  too  much.  It  was  not  necessary  for  those  two  men 
to  talk,  and,  having  talked,  they  are  worse  off  than  they 
would  be  had  they  been  silent.  Mum's  the  word!" 

Winter  came  shortly,  and  many  poor  people  were 
out  of  employment.  Frequently  some  of  these  would  pa- 


"THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES"         69 

rade  the  streets;  generally  a  band  of  ten  or  twelve  men, 
poorly  clad  and  shivering,  would  walk  slowly  through 
the  fog  chanting  in  unison:  "We  have  no  work  to  do! 
We  have  no  work  to  do !  We're  all  frozen  out,  and  have 
no  work  to  do!"  Pennies  would  be  flung  to  these  from 
house  windows,  and  the  unhappy  waifs  would  melt 
into  the  mist,  their  pitiful  chorus  growing  faint  and 
fainter  as  they  passed  along.  Then,  sometimes,  would 
come  a  man  and  a  woman  holding  hands,  and  hanging 
on  to  them  eight  or  more  children,  usually  arranged  ac- 
cording to  their  height,  growing  small  by  degrees  and 
miserably  less  as  they  decreased  in  size  from  the  mother 
down  to  the  littlest  babe.  These,  too,  would  chant: 
"We  have  no  work  to  do!  We  have  no  work  to  do! 
We  all  are  wet  and  hungry,  and  have  no  work  to 
do!" 

Peering  from  his  bright  nursery  into  the  dim  street, 
"Me"  obtained  his  first  glimpse  of  such  a  group.  First 
came  their  woful  song  upon  the  yellow  fog;  then  their 
gray  forms,  like  ghosts,  floated  into  view. 

"Come  to  tea!"  said  Rebecca. 

"Hush!"  replied  "Me,"  "I  am  listening." 

"Listening?    To  what?" 

"The  music  of  the  Spheres!"  whispered  "Me,"  for 
surely  this  was  the  "Sphere  family."  "Here  they  come !" 
What  was  it  that  clutched  at  "Me's"  heart  and  brought 
tears  into  his  eyes  if  these  were  not  they  ?  "  It  sounds 
like  pity  and  like  love  and — yes,  it  sounds  like  hunger, 
too." 

"Me"  wrapped  a  penny  in  a  piece  of  newspaper  and 
flung  it  from  the  window.  There  was  much  scrambling 
in  the  mud  to  recover  it,  and  much  touching  of  caps  in 
acknowledgment. 


70  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Why  do  they  touch  their  caps?"  inquired  "Me"  of 
Rebecca. 

"Because  you  are  a  young  gentleman,"  said  she. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see!"  said  "Me."  Then  to  the  astonished 
Rebecca:  "Why  am  I  a  young  gentleman?" 

Rebecca's  reason  seemed  to  give  way  under  the  strain 
of  this  query.  She  stood  still  and  open-mouthed  for  a 
space,  then  she  said  in  a  hushed  tone,  "Well  I  never!" 
and  went  away. 

"Me"  listened  to  the  song  of  the  "Sphere  family" 
until  it  sank  into  the  silence  of  the  bleak  afternoon.  He 
stood  at  the  window  for  a  long  while.  At  length  came 
the  time  for  prayers,  and  three  small  figures  knelt  at  three 
small  beds  and  raised  three  small  voices  in  supplication. 

But  the  proceedings  were  suddenly  interrupted,  for 
"Me"  arose  and  said  to  Rebecca:  "Do  they  pray?" 

"Who?"  said  that  much-troubled  female. 

"Why,  the 'Spheres'!" 

"Who?" 

"The  'Spheres,'  the  people  I  threw  the  penny  to." 

"Of  course  they  do.    All  people  pray." 

"Do  they  say:  'Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread'  ? " 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?"  said  Rebecca,  past 
experience  making  her  suspicious. 

"Because  if  they  pray,  'Give  us  this  day  our  daily 
bread,'  why  are  they  hungry?" 

"Perhaps  they  are  wicked  people!"  said  Rebecca. 

"Are  all  hungry  people  wicked?"  asked  "Me." 

Again  Rebecca's  reason  forsook  her,  and  again  she 
sought  safety  in  flight. 

"I  suppose,"  considered  "Me,"  "that  food  makes 
people  good." 

This  seemed  fairly  evident,  for  was  there  not  much 


"THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES"         71 

talk  in  church  about  feasts — the  feast  of  this  and  the 
feast  of  that  ?  No  doubt  all  the  wicked  people  were 
gathered  together,  and  fed  into  a  state  of  repentance 
and  righteousness. 

Why,  of  course  it  was  so.  "Feed  the  hungry !"  Only 
last  Sunday  the  old  white-haired  clergyman  had  re- 
peated it  at  least  twenty  times  during  his  sermon.  In- 
deed "Me"  had  become  rather  nervous  and  embarrassed, 
for  the  clergyman  had  distinctly  pointed  his  finger  di- 
rectly at  him  when  he  had  exclaimed:  "Feed  the  hun- 
gry" the  fifteenth  time,  and  the  injunction  had  quite 
taken  "Me's"  mind  off  his  dinner  that  afternoon. 

By  the  railings  of  Kensington  Gardens  sat  a  blind  man 
who  had  neither  legs  nor  arms.  A  very  old  dog  sat  by 
his  side  with  a  tin  mug  in  his  mouth.  On  the  blind 
man's  breast  was  a  placard  on  which  was  printed  in 
shaky  letters:  "Pity  the  blind."  Rain  or  shine  they 
sat  there,  silent,  still,  forever  listening.  If  you  dropped 
a  coin  in  the  tin  mug  the  dog  would  lean  his  head  toward 
the  blind  man  and  push  him.  The  blind  man's  face 
would  flush  as  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  coin,  then  his 
lips  would  move  but  one  never  heard  him  speak. 

One  day  "Me"  contemplated  the  silent  pair  for  some 
time,  and  then  whispered  to  the  blind  man:  "Can  you 
hear  it?" 

"You  mean  the  music  ?"  said  the  blind  man. 

"Yes,"  said  "Me,"  hushed  and  expectant. 

"What  does  it  sound  like?" 

"Oh,  all  sorts  of  things,"  said  the  blind  man.  "Some- 
times it  sounds  like  the  sea,  sometimes  like  Southampton, 
where  I  was  born,  sometimes  like  the  Crimea,  where  I 
lost  my  legs  and  arms.  Just  now  it  sounds  like  beef- 
steak and  onions." 


72  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"That,"  said  Uncle  Hugh  later,  "is  his  particular  idea 
of  heaven,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  on  the  whole  sane 
and  modest  enough.  You  or  I  might  find  it  difficult  to 
express  beefsteak  and  onions  in  strains  of  music,  but 
each  of  us  has  his  peculiar  ecstasy.  The  blind  man  will 
perceive  heaven  in  extracting  from  you  and  me  beef- 
steak and  onions,  while  we,  who  are  blessed  with  sight, 
will  reach  the  heavenly  sphere  through  feeding  beef- 
steak and  onions  to  the  blind.  No  doubt  there  is  music 
either  way  if  one  could  only  hear  it.  There  is  a  difference 
between  closing  your  eyes  and  losing  them  altogether. 
People  who  have  lost  their  eyes  are  great  listeners." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  "Me."  "Oh!"  he  continued, 
"I  saw  them  yesterday." 

"Who?"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"The  'Sphere  family/"  said  "Me."  "I  saw  them 
and  I  heard  them  sing." 

"Yes?"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  not  in  the  least  surprised. 
"What  song  did  they  sing?" 

"They  came  along  the  street  in  the  mist  holding 
each  other's  hands,  and  they  sang:  'We  have  no  work 
to  do !  We  have  no  work  to  do !  We  all  are  wet  and 
hungry,  we  have  no  work  to  do/  ' 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"Yes,"  said  "Me,"  "I  remembered  that  the  music  of 
the  'Spheres'  sounded  like  'Pity  and  love  and  hunger/ 
so  I  knew  them  at  once." 

"And  what  did  you  do?"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"I  think  I  cried,"  said  "Me,"  unashamed. 

"Good!"  said  Uncle  Hugh.     "Then  you  felt  pity." 

"Oh,  yes!"  whispered  "Me,"  "and  love  and  hunger, 
too." 

"What  else?"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 


"THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  SPHERES"         73 

"I  threw  them  a  penny,"  said  "Me."  "It  was  all  I 
had." 

Uncle  Hugh  lighted  a  cigar. 

"When  you  grow  up,"  said  he,  "you  will  learn  to 
smoke,  and  as  you  smoke  you  will  indulge  in  contempla- 
tion, and  as  you  contemplate  you  will  admit  that  if  you 
have  only  a  penny  a  penny  is  a  great  deal,  and  you  will 
wonder  why  it  is  that  you,  who  once  were  so  filled  with 
love  and  pity  that  you  gave  all,  now  pass  the  hungry 
by  and  see  them  not,  and  then  you  will  remember  that 
it  is  because  you  no  longer  pause  to  listen,  to  listen " 

"To  the  'Sphere  family'  ?"  said  "Me." 

"Yes,"  assented  Uncle  Hugh,  "to  the  'Sphere  family/" 

"I  think  I  shall  always  hear  them,"  said  "Me." 

"We  will  see,"  sighed  Uncle  Hugh. 

"What  music  wakens  the  drowsy  noon  ? 
It  swells  and  sighs  in  the  swaying  trees. 
The  whispering  grasses  bear  the  tune 
To  the  far-off  bell  and  the  droning  bees — 
From  honied  lands — over  bitter  seas; 
'Neath  the  golden  sun;  or  the  silver  moon; 
On  the  morning's  breath;  on  the  evening  breeze; 
We  shall  gather  its  burthen — late  or  soon. 

"From  the  darkling  brow  of  the  pine-clad  hill, 
A  note  of  the  northwind  sweet  and  clear 
Makes  the  pulses  leap,  and  the  herd  stand  still — 
'Tis  the  Goat-god's  reed  !  from  the  haunted  mere 
Comes  the  lilt  of  laughter  now  far — now  near — 
Where  Dryads  dance  to  the  Piper's  thrill: 
As  he  lolls  on  the  lap  of  Night  to  hear 
The  plaint  of  Echo,  from  rock  and  rill. 

"Yet  hark  !     'Tis  no  strain  of  earthly  things — 
It  floats  from  the  realms  where  the  planets,  hung 


74  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

In  highest  Heaven,  may  brush  the  wings 

Of  choristers  ever  and  ever  young — 

The  song  of  songs  we  have  never  sung 

Sings  not  of  the  sorry  world — it  sings 

Of  dreamful  valleys  the  gods  among — 

And  the  Harper  harps  on  a  thousand  strings. 

"  Singer  of  songs,  whoe'er  you  be, 
Lord  of  the  Heaven  or  Piper  Pan; 
To  your  touch,  in  an  awful  ecstasy, 
Tremble  the  chords  in  the  heart  of  man. 
The  love  of  our  long-lost  lay  began 
When  the  world  was  young  and  the  soul  was  free. 
Twould  break  its  bondage,  the  stars  to  scan 
For  the  source  of  its  ancient  melody." 


X 
AMONG  THE  GODS 

"WHEN  I  was  a  god,"  said  Uncle  Hugh  ("Me"  did 
not  know  it  at  the  moment  but  Hugh  alluded  to  his 
divinity  among  the  Haidar  savages) —  "When  I  was 
a  god,  I  found  that  the  scantier  my  raiment  the  more 
ample  was  my  authority.  Cupid  in  knickerbockers  is 
no  longer  an  archer;  one  would  scoff  at  a  Venus  en- 
veloped in  furbelows;  Adonis  in  a  frock  coat  barters  his 
godhead  for  shadows  sartorial;  Mercury,  his  pinions 
pump-prisoned,  becomes  a  pedestrian;  top-hats  will 
not  adjust  themselves  to  aureoles,  while  that  goddess 
renounces  heaven  who  dons  a  petticoat." 

These  reflections  were  projected  by  "Me's"  inquiry 
as  to  why  Cupid,  as  portrayed  on  the  valentines  in  the 
shop-windows,  was  innocent  of  garments.  Cupid's  con- 
dition at  Christmas  time  was  even  more  pitiful  than  at 
the  feast  of  Saint  Valentine.  To  have  to  handle  one's 
bow  and  arrows  in  the  snow  would  be  trying  to  toes 
and  fingers,  to  say  nothing  of  noses. 

"It's  quite  cold  in  February,"  remarked  "Me." 

Hugh  admitted  that  it  was.  "But  about  the  I4th  of 
February,"  said  he,  "the  birds  begin  to  seek  their  mates. 
It  is  Nature's  pairing  time,  and,  long  before  Saint  Valen- 
tine appeared  on  the  scene,  boys  and  girls  observed  the 
sap  rising  in  the  trees  and  the  birds  awing,  and  you 
would  be  astonished  to  know  how  lonely  a  fellow  can  be 
about  the  middle  of  February." 

75 


76  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Don't  gods  feel  the  cold?"  inquired  "Me." 

"Rather,"  said  Uncle  Hugh.  "That's  why  they  keep 
out  of  the  way.  You  see  it's  terribly  tiresome  having  to 
go  about  so  thinly  clad  and  that,  too,  entirely  for  the  good 
of  other  people.  Cupid,  I'm  sure,  must  have  a  hard  time 
to  continue  mischievous  when  he  has  to  dance  to  keep 
his  feet  warm  and  blow  on  his  fingers  before  he  can  draw 
his  bow." 

"How  does  it  feel  when  he  hits  you?"  asked  "Me." 

"Couldn't  say,"  responded  Uncle  Hugh,  "because  he 
never  did  hit  me.  I  am  told,  however,  that  one  feels  ex- 
cellently foolish,  and  from  observing  the  wounded  and 
assisting  the  maimed,  I  should  judge  that  the  arrows  are 
dipped  in  some  kind  of  drug  which  dulls  the  under- 
standing." 

"Oh,  then  you  have  seen  people  who  were  hit?"  said 
"Me." 

"Yes,"  answered  Uncle  Hugh.  "I  knew  one  man  who 
used  to  be  hit  regularly  once  a  week." 

"Did  he  bleed?"  said  "Me." 

"Well,  he  was  bled,"  replied  Uncle  Hugh.  "His  'sil- 
ver skin  laced  with  his  golden  blood,'  so  to  speak." 

"Why  doesn't  Cupid  ever  grow  up  ?"  wondered  "Me." 

"I've  often  thought  of  that  myself,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 
"I  suppose  it's  because  if  he  were  grown  up  he  would  not 
be  capable  of  the  senseless,  irresponsible,  reprehensible, 
reckless,  purposeless,  and  generally  idiotic  conduct  which 
now  distinguishes  him.  The  only  consideration  which 
makes  his  behavior  pardonable  is  that  he  doesn't  know 
any  better.  He's  childish,  you  see,  so  he  is  forgiven. 
Then,  too,  the  complaint  for  which  he  is  held  responsible 
is  of  so  ridiculous  and  tragic  a  nature  that  there  must 
be  a  scapegoat  of  some  sort  whom  we  can  blame  for  the 


AMONG  THE  GODS  77 

folly  and  the  wretchedness  in  which  we  become  in- 
volved." 

"Does  it  hurt  much  then?"  said  "Me." 

"Like  the  very  devil,  I'm  told,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"What  is  a  scapegoat?"  asked  "Me." 

"A  scapegoat  was  a  goat  on  whose  head  the  ancient 
Jews  symbolically  placed  the  sins  of  the  people;  after 
which  he  was  suffered  to  escape  into  the  wilderness,  and 
there,  because  you  and  I  and  Rebecca  have  misbehaved 
ourselves,  the  goat  dies  of  thirst  and  hunger,  and  then 
you  and  I  and  Rebecca  are  as  good  as  new.  In  the  same 
manner,  if  I  murder  my  wife  for  love  of  her,  I  blame 
Cupid  and  escape  the  gallows." 

"I  think  Rebecca's  in  love!"  declared  "Me." 

"Yes?"  said  Uncle  Hugh.  "What  makes  you  think 
so?" 

"I  saw  her  kiss  Biggs,"  said  "Me." 

"Let  us  not  be  hasty,"  commented  Uncle  Hugh.  "It 
may  have  been  merely  a  collision,  an  accident,  a  losing  of 
the  balance,  as  it  were.  She  may  have  regained  the 
perpendicular.  Then,  too,  at  this  time  of  year  seasonable 
infirmities  are  diagnosed  as  love.  Hay-fever  for  example; 
an  inflamed  head  is  often  mistaken  for  a  combustible 
heart,  and  people  rush  at  conclusions  only  to  abandon 
them.  Thus  Rebecca  and  Biggs,  who  one  moment  are 
assured  that  they  two  should  be  one,  the  next  moment 
are  convinced  that  two  into  one  won't  go." 

Uncle  Hugh's  philosophy  was  somewhat  involved  and 
confusing  this  morning,  and  "Me"  was  left  to  marvel 
that  so  common  a  thing  as  a  kiss  could  possibly  be  the 
cause  of  so  much  reasoning.  Love  seemed  a  very  simple 
matter:  merely  to  want  and  to  be  comforted;  to  be  tired 
and  have  arms  about  one;  to  long  for,  and  to  be  satis- 


78  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

fied;  to  fall  asleep  confident,  secure  and  happy  in  the 
knowledge  that  some  other  understands  everything, 
forgives  everything,  bears  everything.  Why,  then,  so 
many  words  and  such  mysterious  suggestions  of  dis- 
aster and  sorrow  and  danger  ?  If  Cupid  was  a  little  child, 
love  must  be  innocent  enough.  Uncle  Hugh's  talk  left  a 
sense  of  doubt  and  shadow  and  unrest.  There  was  a 
darker  side  to  this  kissing.  It  was  not  always  a  happy 
and  laughable  matter. 

"What  is  love  ?"  demanded  "Me"  of  Rebecca. 

"Good  gracious!'*  said  that  startled  woman,  "what 
a  question!  Why,"  continued  she,  having  thought  a 
moment  and  smiling  to  herself,  "love  is  getting  married, 
and  having  children  of  one's  own,  and  keeping  a  green- 
grocer's shop  just  off  Baker  Street." 

This  was  certainly  a  most  particular  definition,  and 
yet  it  seemed  that  something  must  have  been  left  out; 
for  the  chief  impression  made  by  it  was  one  of  vegetables, 
chiefly  cauliflower. 

"What  is  love?"  inquired  "Me"  of  Fanny  Marsh, 
the  cook.  Fanny  Marsh  was  engaged  in  basting  a  joint 
which  was  revolving  on  a  spit  before  the  fire.  She  turned 
toward  "Me"  with  a  very  red  face,  and  with  a  large 
ladle  of  gravy  in  her  right  hand. 

"Love,"  said  she,  after  a  pause,  "is  being  beaten 
every  Saturday  night."  Then  she  poured  the  gravy 
over  the  joint  and  wiped  her  eyes  with  her  other  hand. 
"Me's"  heart  smote  him,  for  he  recalled  that  Rebecca 
had  once  whispered  that  Fanny  Marsh  had  not  been 
happy  in  her  marriage;  therefore,  he  rushed  at  Fanny 
Marsh,  and  threw  his  arms  about  her  ample  person  and 
declared  that  he  did  not  mean  it,  although  what  he  did 
not  mean  was  by  no  means  apparent. 


AMONG  THE  GODS  79 

"What  is  love?"  inquired  "Me"  from  Johnson,  the 
coachman. 

Johnson  was  standing  in  the  stable-yard  chewing  a  straw 
and  watching  the  grooming  of  some  horses  with  critical  eye. 

"Love  ?"  said  he.  "Why,  you  see  that  'orse  bite  that 
mare  on  the  neck;  that's  love!  You  see  them  pigeons 
cooin'  and  rubbin'  their  bills  together  ?  That's  love ! 
You  see  that  cock  acrying  *  cock-a-doodle-doo '?  That's 
love.  Love's  what  keeps  everything  and  everybody  on 
the  move;  it's  love  that  makes  the  world  go  round,  and 
makes  us  all  want  to  go  round  the  world." 

This  was  a  long  speech  for  Johnson,  who  was  one  of 
the  great  silent  men  of  history,  and  whose  conversation 
mostly  consisted  of  "Gee-up,"  or  "Come  over,"  or 
"Whoa,  mare!"  consequently  "Me"  was  deeply  im- 
pressed by  this  oration. 

Up  to  now  inquiry  had  resulted  in  three  distinct  and 
unrelated  impressions:  cauliflower,  being  beaten,  and 
perpetual  motion.  None  of  these  nor  all  of  them  to- 
gether appeared  to  fill  the  mental  void  created  by  the 
word  "love." 

In  the  neighborhood  of  "Me's"  house  was  a  straggling 
thoroughfare  called  "Lovers'  Lane."  Once  it  had  been 
in  the  country,  but  London  had  surrounded  it.  Hedges 
still  struggled  to  exist  on  either  side  of  the  narrow  way. 
But  it  was  rather  a  birdless  and  bedraggled  paradise. 
Gloomy  and  distracted  young  men  and  voluble  young 
women  strolled  here  at  dusk;  waists  were  encircled  and 
hands  were  held,  but  the  general  influence  of  the  locality 
seemed  to  be  dismal  and  joyless. 

"Like  the  very  devil,"  Uncle  Hugh  had  replied  when 
asked  if  Cupid's  arrows  hurt  much.  These,  then,  were 
the  wounded  and  the  maimed. 


8o  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Hello!  Here's  a  wedding!"  said  Uncle  Hugh  as  he 
and  "Me"  approached  an  excited  crowd  on  the  pave- 
ment. A  number  of  gayly  dressed  people  came  out  of 
the  church;  then,  walking  on  a  red  carpet  and  weeping 
copiously,  came  the  bride,  and  the  groom  pretending  he 
didn't  see  anybody.  Some  of  the  people  wept,  also,  and 
some  looked  very  solemn  or  angry.  There  was  much 
commiseration  from  the  crowd.  Some  rice  was  thrown 
by  a  forlorn,  thin  woman;  a  slipper  launched  by  a  sad 
man.  The  carriage  door  slammed,  and  the  unhappy 
couple  drove  away. 

"Was  that  love?  "said  "Me." 

"No,"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  "that  was  marriage." 

"But  marriage  is  love,  isn't  it?"  said  "Me." 

"Occasionally,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"Why  did  they  throw  things  at  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom?" inquired  "Me." 

"Well,"  answered  Uncle  Hugh,  laughing,  "it's  well  to 
begin  as  one  may  have  to  continue,  and  it  is  the  part  of 
wisdom  to  acquire  powers  of  resistance  early  in  the 
game.  First  rice,  then  slippers,  then  saucepans;  one 
must  proceed  gradually;  besides  saucepans  are  not 
thrown  in  public,  it's  bad  form. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  remarked  Uncle  Hugh,  as 
they  arrived  at  Westminster  Bridge  and  encountered 
another  gathering  through  which  policemen  made  way 
bearing  something  on  a  stretcher  which  was  placed  in 
an  ambulance  and  driven  away. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Uncle  Hugh  of  a  man  in  the 
crowd. 

"Love!"  said  the  man.    "Drowned  herself." 

"Me"  clung  in  fear  to  Uncle  Hugh.  "This  was  terrible. 
Was  love  so  cruel  as  all  this  ?" 


HOWARD    H.    SOTHERN,    AGED    NINE    YEARS 


AMONG  THE  GODS  81 

On  the  way  home  a  street  preacher  was  holding  forth 
to  a  number  of  persons  who  regarded  him  with  open 
mouths  and  wondering  eyes;  apparently  hearing  without 
listening.  He,  too,  seemed  to  talk  without  much  con- 
viction, and  as  if  he  had  learned  by  heart  what  he  was 
saying. 

"Love  one  another!"  cried  the  preacher.  "Love  one 
another!"  he  commanded  again,  and  yet  again. 

"Me"  quite  expected  the  listeners  to  embrace  each 
other  on  the  spot  or  to  otherwise  respond  to  the  man's 
invitation,  but  nobody  moved. 

"Love  one  another!"  he  cried  again. 

"Will  they  do  it?"  whispered  "Me." 

"I  think  it  most  unlikely,"  answered  Uncle  Hugh. 
"You  see  it  isn't  customary.  We  all  expect  to  be  loved, 
but  to  love  in  return  puts  one  to  considerable  incon- 
venience." 

"We  will  now  take  up  a  collection  for  the  heathen," 
said  the  preacher,  at  which  the  crowd  melted  rapidly 
away. 

"Why  does  he  want  money  for  the  heathen?"  asked 
"Me." 

"Well,  you  see  the  heathen  are  more  or  less  con- 
tented," replied  Hugh.  "Love,  in  the  strictest  sense, 
doesn't  trouble  them  greatly;  so  we  feel  called  upon  to 
go  among  them  and  tell  them  all  about  love  as  we  under- 
stand it.  We  persuade  them  to  love  instead  of  eat  one 
another;  but  they  reply  that  they  eat  one  another  be- 
cause of  their  love — a  rather  unanswerable  argument; 
for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  if  you  eat  your  friend,  or  even 
your  enemy,  you  and  he  become  as  one." 

Said  "Me":  "Uncle  Hugh,  when  you  were  a  god  did 
you  forgive  people  their  sins?" 


82  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Well,  I  never  admitted  that  they  had  any  sins," 
pondered  Hugh,  "any  more  than  a  ship  has  when  it  is 
under  the  weather;  it's  at  the  mercy  of  the  waves,  isn't 
it?" 

"But  then  it  has  a  rudder,"  said  "Me." 

"That's  true,"  replied  Hugh,  "and  a  man  at  the  wheel 
who  does  the  best  that  he  knows.  He  would  not  wreck 
the  vessel  if  he  could  help  it,  for  the  vessel's  life  is  his 
life." 

"Yes,"  said  "Me,"  "and  then  he  has  to  think  of  the 
lives  of  all  the  other  people  on  board.  I  suppose  he'd 
stick  to  the  wheel  until  he  died  ?" 

"Of  course  he  would  !"  said  Hugh. 

"Why  would  he  do  that?"  said  "Me." 

"Courage!"  said  Hugh. 

"Oh!"  said  "Me,"  "I  thought  it  might  be  love!" 

Hugh  regarded  "Me"  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then 
he  said,  looking  at  the  sky:  "You're  right,  that's  what 
it  would  be — love." 


"The  gods  of  yesteryear  are  fled ! 
Dan  Cupid  solitary  stays; 
And  only  shows  his  puzzled  head 
At  Christmas  time  and  wedding-days. 

"In  drafty,  dim  museum  hall, 
A  Parian  Psyche,  all  forlorn, 
Upon  her  dreary  pedestal, 
For  Zephyr  waits  from  night  to  morn. 

"There  Aphrodite  stands  aloof 
Twixt  Hercules  and  Dian's  dogs, 
The  Fateful  Sisters  weave  their  woof 
In  lexicons  and  catalogues. 


AMONG  THE  GODS  83 

'Silenus  gone  from  bad  to  worst, 
Grown  marble-hearted  in  despair, 
Through  arid  centuries  of  thirst, 
Now  greets  us  with  a  stony  stare. 

'  Fled  are  the  gods  of  yesteryear ! 
No  nymph,  in  times  so  commonplace, 
May  flout  Olympian  Jupiter, 
Nor  meet  Adonis  face  to  face. 

'Nor  hope  to  see  the  love-sick  moon 
Stoop  down  to  kiss  a  sleeping  lad; 
Nor  fly  the  wind-swept  rushes'  tune 
Lest  sight  of  Pan  should  make  her  mad. 

'Fain  would  we  suffer  goodman  Puck ! 
Fain  bear  the  pranks  of  graceless  Mab; 
To  oust  the  gods  not  mends  our  luck; 
And  spriteless  worlds  are  dreary  drab. 

'The  gods  of  yesteryear,  alack ! 
Have  gone  for  ay  beyond  our  gates; 
Nor  prayers  nor  threats  will  bring  us  back 
Their  human  loves  and  human  hates. 

'Ne'er  shall  we  stray  with  Proserpine 
Upon  her  hero-dappled  mead, 
To  see  that  twilight  region  shine 
With  forms  of  the  heroic  dead. 

'Could  tongue-tied  Echo  break  her  spell, 
Her  fond  loquacity  renew, 
What  stories  she  would  have  to  tell 
Of  Zeus  and  his  unbridled  crew. 

'How  gods  as  cuckoos,  streams,  and  snakes, 
Disguised  themselves  to  conquer  ladies; 
How  plucking  a  narcissus  makes 
You  whisked  away  by  hateful  Hades. 


84  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"How  Venus  turned  a  shepherd's  head, 
In  sandal  shoon  and  rustic  bodice; 
And  how  he  bounded  out  of  bed, 
To  find  his  shepherdess  a  goddess. 

"Our  times  afford  no  such  disguise, 
Silk  hats,  French  fashions,  and  umbrellas 
Won't  do:  while  kidnapped  Deities 
May  phone  *  Hello*  from  Hell  to  Hellas. 

"Garbed  in  the  gauze  of  ancient  Greece 
Immortals  were  for  mortals  taken, 
Here  what  with  weather  and  police 
No  wonder  we  are  God-forsaken. 

"The  gods  are  fled  !    Their  day  is  done, 
We  treat  them  now  with  scorn;  but  oddly 
The  wise  declare,  since  they  are  gone, 
A  godless  world  at  last  is  godly. 

"Fallen  their  fanes,  their  altars  cold; 
Yet,  from  the  mist  of  tor  and  glen, 
Their  watch  and  ward,  as  kept  of  old, 
Still  lingers  in  the  steps  of  men. 

"Yea !     If  the  gods  their  faces  hide 
From  this  ingrate,  prosaic  time, 
Though  lost  to  sight,  they  yet  abide, 
By  reason  slain,  they  live  in  rhyme. 

"But  yesteryear  they  kept  their  state 
With  Faun  and  Dryad,  sprite  and  fay, 
And  wistfully  we  whisper  Fate, 
Would  yesteryear  were  yesterday." 


XI 
"THE  BLESSEDS" 

IT  is  on  the  very  first  page  of  my  remembrance  that 
I  see  myself  held  up  in  my  nurse's  arms  to  look  into  a 
pair  of  gray  eyes  which  twinkle  like  the  sun.  There  is 
a  blaze  of  light  and  a  great  many  people  about.  Some 
are  in  beautiful  clothes,  and  some  are  rough  people  in 
shirt  sleeves.  I  am  on  the  stage  of  the  Haymarket 
Theatre  in  London  in  1863.  The  eyes  that  twinkle  are 
those  of  my  father.  He  is  made-up  for  his  part  of  "Lord 
Dundreary,"  and  is  there  before  the  beginning  of  the 
play  to  take  a  final  look  at  the  scene,  and  my  brother 
and  sister  and  I  have  been  brought  behind  the  foot- 
lights that  he  may  say  good  night  to  "The  Blesseds." 

It  was  as  a  child  of  three  years  or  so  that  I  began  first 
to  be  aware  of  my  father.  My  mother  used  to  drive  him 
frequently  to  the  theatre  from  our  house  in  Kensington. 
Sometimes  my  brother  Lytton  and  I  would  be  taken 
with  her.  I  recall  well  the  refreshment  bar  in  front  of 
the  house,  with  sponge-cake  under  glass  cases  and  all 
sorts  of  exciting  things  tied  up  in  paper  and  gay  ribbons. 
Held  in  my  nurse's  arms,  I  would  help  myself  to  these 
delicacies  aided  and  abetted  by  the  beautiful  barmaid; 
later  we  would  proceed  through  mysterious  passages  to 
greet  "Lord  Dundreary." 

I  remember  perfectly  my  curiosity  at  the  long,  black 
whiskers.  Indeed  my  recollection  of  my  father  begins 
with  his  countenance  thus  disguised.  (It  is  at  a  much 

85 


86  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

later  date  that  he  dawns  upon  me  in  his  proper  person) 
whiskers,  eye-glass,  black  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  and 
with  one  eyebrow  curiously  higher  than  the  other. 

When  we  were  old  enough  to  witness  the  play,  it  was 
his  great  delight  to  introduce  remarks  during  the  per- 
formance which  alluded  to  us  but  which  the  audience 
would  think  part  of  the  comedy.  Especially  would  he 
mention  our  names,  as  "I  wonder  what  Eddy  would 
say  to  that?"  This  invariably  sent  me  down  to  the 
floor,  to  hide  in  trepidation  and  strange  glee,  and  up 
again,  half  an  inch  at  a  time,  to  see  if  any  one  were  look- 
ing at  me. 

All  my  father's  acting  at  this  time  was  not  confined 
to  the  stage.  Our  garden  at  "The  Cedars"  was  a  very 
land  of  romance,  and  here,  in  nooks  and  corners  and 
rockeries  and  on  the  lawns,  "The  Blesseds"  enacted 
many  a  fairy-tale  from  "Jack  and  the  Beanstalk"  to 
"King  Arthur  and  the  Round  Table."  As  a  war-horse, 
or  an  ogre,  or  a  dragon,  or  a  witch,  my  father  lent  much 
terror  and  realism  to  these  occasions.  The  princes  and 
princesses  of  story-books  trod  these  lawns  and  here 
love,  who  respects  neither  persons  nor  years,  first  undid 
me.  Here  was  I  called  upon  to  display  in  real  life  those 
qualities  of  which  heroes  are  made. 

"Hello,  'Buggins  the  Builder,'  "  said  my  father  one 
fine  day.  My  playmate's  name  was  Burgett,  but  forever 
after  we  called  him  "Buggins  the  Builder."  He  was 
not  a  builder,  nor  had  any  of  his  ancestors  been  builders. 
The  alliteration  no  doubt  pleased  my  father.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  Gus  Burgett,  who  was  neither  Buggins  nor  a 
builder,  was  henceforth  "Buggins  the  Builder." 

Old  Mr.  Burgett  pere  was  poor,  and  when  a  rich  rela- 
tive, for  some  reason  or  another,  sent  his  small  daughter, 


.    w 

^"      M 
•H     < 


H 

< 


"THE  BLESSEDS"  87 

Tillie,  the  sister  of  Gus,  five  pounds  for  Christmas, 
there  was  some  excitement  afoot.  My  friend  Gus  was 
quick  to  see  the  possibilities  of  so  considerable  a  sum  of 
money.  We  were  about  the  same  age — that  is,  between 
seven  and  eight.  Gus  came  over  to  play  with  me  the 
day  after  the  gold  had  arrived.  He  had  brought  Tillie 
with  him.  Tillie  was  about  nine  years  of  age  and  looked 
like  an  apple.  Hand  in  hand  they  approached  me  in 
the  garden. 

"I  thay!"  said  Gus — he  lisped  badly  and  also  suffered 
from  a  perpetual  "sniff"  — "I  thay!"  said  he,  "Tillie 
hath  five  pounds !  Uncle  Horathe  gave  it  to  her.  If 
you  marry  her  the  sayth  you  and  I  can  have  the  money." 

Tillie  looked  down  at  her  toes;  she  was  actually  coy. 
I  had  heard  in  a  dim  way  that  money  was  a  useful  thing 
to  have,  but  no  desire  for  it  had  as  yet  assailed  me;  never- 
theless my  small  bosom  began  to  be  torn  asunder.  I  had 
heard,  too,  of  marriage  and  of  being  given  in  marriage, 
but  I  had  not  expected  to  face  such  an  ordeal  for  some 
time  to  come. 

"Tillie  loveth  you,"  said  Gus.     "Don't  you,  Tillie?" 

"Yeth,"  lisped  that  maiden,  for  she,  also,  was  affected 
with  both  lisp  and  sniff. 

In  all  fairy-tales  the  hero  scorns  gold;  virtue  and 
poverty  go  hand  in  hand,  and  bribery  and  corruption 
belong  only  to  ogres  and  such.  My  code  of  ethics  was 
limited  but  clear. 

"No,"  said  I. 

"Why  not?"  said  "Buggins  the  Builder,"  cupidity 
gleaming  from  his  eyes  and  sniffs  distorting  his  nose. 

"I  don't  love  Tillie,"  said  I,  which  was  not  the  case 
at  all,  for,  although  I  had  never  thought  about  it  before, 
I  now  adored  her,  I  felt  sure. 


88  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  sniffed  "Buggins  the  Builder." 

"Yeth,  it  doeth,"  sniffed  Tillie,  and  began  to  cry. 

The  conference  broke  up  in  disorder.  Tillie  joined  the 
other  children  in  the  garden  who  looked  at  me  askance. 
We  were  both  regarded  with  strange  and  new  interest  for 
at  least  half  a  day,  when  a  dead  bird  or  a  new  toy  threw 
our  romance  into  the  shadow.  I,  too,  soon  forgot  my 
passion  for  Tillie  in  new  adventures,  for  Uncle  Hugh  was 
at  hand,  and  was  a  leader  in  many  enterprises. 

Whenever  my  father's  acting  season  was  over,  we 
would  be  off  to  the  seaside  for  the  holiday.  These  halcyon 
days  at  Ramsgate  are  especially  vivid  still — Ramsgate, 
made  immortal  in  the  "Bab  Ballads,"  and  in  the  "In- 
goldsby  Legends,"  by  the  fearsome  tale  of  "Smuggler 
Bill,"  who  was  raced  over  the  cliff  by  the  devil  himself. 
There  is  the  "Smuggler's  Leap"  to-day  in  front  of  the 
Granville  Hotel,  and  from  the  hotel  garden  one  goes 
down  into  the  "  Smuggler's  Cave,"  which,  with  long,  dark, 
tortuous  passages,  leads  out  onto  the  face  of  the  cliff 
some  fifty  feet  above  the  sea,  where,  on  the  rocks  be- 
low, crashed  "Smuggler  Bill,"  and  his  dapple-gray  mare 
in  death  grips  with  the  devil  on  his  coal-black  steed. 

Here  on  the  very  spot  my  father  used  to  read  to  three 
delightfully  terrified  children  the  blood-curdling  ad- 
venture of  "Smuggler  Bill."  When  he  got  to  the  verse 

"Smuggler  Bill  from  his  holster  drew 
A  large  horse-pistol,  of  which  he  had  two, 
Made  by  Knock.     He  drew  back  the  cock 
As  far  as  he  could  to  the  back  of  the  lock; 
The  trigger  he  pulled,  the  welkin  it  rang; 
The  sound  of  the  weapon  it  made  such  a  bang!  " 

when  he  would  reach  the  word  "bang!"  there  was  an 
awful  effect,  for  he  had  begun  the  verse  in  a  low,  mys- 


"THE  BLESSEDS"  89 

terious  tone,  very  tense,  and  holding  on  to  us  as  though 
to  protect  us  from  impending  danger.  He  proceeded 
rapidly  in  this  hushed,  tense  tone,  until  he  reached  the 
word  "bang,"  which  he  would  give  out  with  such  a  shout 
that  the  cavern  echoed  again,  and  we,  gloriously  fright- 
ened, would  be  hurled  from  him  by  the  force  of  the  explo- 
sion, huddled  together  and  wide-eyed,  to  approach  again 
for  the  next  verse  and  the  next  shock.  These  nerve-rack- 
ing recitations  especially  appealed  to  my  small  brother 
Sam,  who  would  frequently  drag  my  father  from  his 
writing-desk,  or  even  from  his  meals,  saying:  'Ta* 
wants  the  '  'Muggler's  Leap.' ' 

When  Joseph  Jefferson  visited  England  about  this 
period  to  play  "Rip  Van  Winkle"  in  London,  he  be- 
came a  party  to  these  occasions.  Mr.  Jefferson  stayed 
at  our  house  in  Kensington.  You  who  remember  the 
sweet  and  gentle  Jefferson  will  smile  to  know  that  my 
parent  told  his  children  that  a  famous  pirate  chief  was 
coming  to  hide  from  the  officers  of  the  law.  Shortly 
Jefferson  arrived,  wrapped  up  in  a  very  large  greatcoat 
and  accompanied  by  his  son  Charles,  who  had  met  with 
an  accident  on  shipboard.  Charles  was  carried  care- 
fully into  a  room  on  the  ground  floor,  and  Jefferson  and 
my  father  were  closeted  for  a  while  making  Charles  com- 
fortable in  bed.  When  my  father  came  out,  I  and  my 
brothers  were  peering  through  the  banisters  at  the  door 
of  the  "pirate." 

"Hush!"  said  my  father.  "There  has  been  a  terrible 
battle  on  the  high  seas.  The  pirate  chief  will  be  hanged 
if  anybody  speaks,  and  his  first  mate  is  full  of  cannon- 
balls.  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  is  to  give 
up  eating  and  to  stand  on  one  leg.  Quick!  There  is 
no  time  to  lose.  Hush!"  and  he  left  us. 


90  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Shortly  Mr.  Jefferson  came  out  of  the  room  and 
found  three  little  boys  each  standing  on  one  leg  on  the 
staircase. 

"Don't  shoot!"  said  my  elder  brother. 

"Bang!"  shouted  Mr.  Jefferson,  and  the  three  small 
lads  fled  in  dismay. 

It  did  not  take  long  for  us  to  make  friends  with  this 
"terror  of  the  seas."  We  were  soon  taken  to  see  "Rip," 
and  then  we  played  "Rip"  ourselves,  assisted  by  Joe 
Jefferson.  In  those  days  we  played  many  plays.  The 
rockery  in  our  garden  very  readily  became  a  weird  spot 
in  the  Kaatskill  Mountains,  "Sleepy  Hollow"  and  the 
"Village  of  Falling  Water"  materialized  with  the  swift 
magic  of  childhood's  thought,  which  can  make  one  a 
gnome,  or  a  giant,  or  a  flea,  or  an  elephant  within  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye.  "Rip"  was  a  great  play  for  us. 
The  discarded  Tillie  was  a  fine  Gretchen,  and  the  per- 
formance of  "Buggins  the  Builder"  as  Derrich  very 
nearly  doomed  him  to  a  theatrical  career.  My  brother 
Sam  was  a  gnome,  and  had  to  crawl  about  on  all  fours. 
He,  however,  was  very  mutinous,  and  no  matter  what 
character  we  cast  him  for  he  would  insist  on  introducing 
the  climactic  speech  from  my  father's  performance  of 
"Rosedale,"  where  the  hero  cries:  "Up,  guards,  and  at 
'em."  Quite  regardless  of  plot  or  play,  Sam  would  cry 
this  at  inopportune  moments,  and  when  rebuked  would 
mutter  in  his  own  secret  language  and  conspire  against 
our  peace  of  mind. 

"Wanted — a  country  house  in  Devonshire.  Must  have 
fishing  from  bedroom  window."  This  advertisement,  in- 
serted by  my  father  in  the  London  daily  papers,  brought 
a  prompt  reply,  and  shortly  "The  Blesseds"  found  them- 
selves in  Devonshire  under  the  precise  conditions  ad- 


"THE  BLESSEDS"  91 

vertised  for.  Actually  we  could  fish  from  the  bedroom 
window,  for  a  trout  stream  rushed  by  within  twenty 
feet  of  the  house.  All  his  life,  my  father  was  a  persistent 
fisherman;  nothing  could  daunt  him.  The  worst  possible 
luck  found  him  enthusiastic  and  victorious,  for  if  he 
could  not  catch  fish  he  would  go  into  a  shop  and  buy 
them,  and  so  excite  the  envy  and  disgust  of  his  equally 
unfortunate  fellows. 

Once,  when  we  were  fishing  in  the  Rangeley  Lakes,  the 
sport  was  very  bad  indeed,  and  for  an  entire  day  but 
one  trout  was  caught,  and  that  by  my  father.  He  kept 
on  pulling  this  same  trout  out  of  the  water  until  the 
other  sportsmen  in  distant  boats  concluded  that  his 
phenomenal  success  was  owing  to  the  spots  he  selected 
to  fish  in.  They  followed  him  about  all  over  the  lake. 
Wherever  he  threw  his  line,  up  came  trout  after  trout 
amidst  the  greatest  excitement  and  enthusiasm  from 
him  and  his  crew;  but  those  who  succeeded  him  could 
not  get  a  bite.  They  awaited  his  return  home,  a  gloomy 
group  upon  the  shore.  As  he  approached  he  lifted  his 
lone  fish  up  again  and  again,  counting  an  apparently 
endless  catch  before  their  very  eyes,  when  lo!  the  craft 
ran  ashore,  and  there  was  but  one  trout. 

A  holiday  with  my  father  was  no  idle  matter.  We 
were  all  on  the  jump  from  morning  until  night.  Things 
had  to  happen  all  the  time.  Once  "The  Blesseds"  were 
taken  to  Margate.  This  time  John  T.  Raymond  was  of 
the  party.  He  himself  was  a  restless  spirit,  and  ever  on 
the  alert  to  seize  fun  by  the  forelock.  My  father  and  he 
disappeared  from  our  scene  of  action  one  morning. 
Shortly,  when  we  went  on  the  sands  for  our  daily  ad- 
ventures among  the  Punch  and  Judy  shows  and  the 
donkey  boys  and  the  minstrel  men,  we  were  attracted 


92  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

by  a  great  crowd  which  surrounded  some  negro  minstrels. 
Mr.  Bones  and  the  tambourine  were  especially  active 
and  diverting.  We  watched  them  for  some  time  before 
we  became  aware  that  the  acrobatic  Mr.  Bones  was  in 
reality  John  T.  Raymond  and  the  agile  Mr.  Tambourine, 
whose  convulsions  were  quite  amazing,  was  our  adored 
father. 

It  transpired  that  my  father  had  encountered  an  old 
comrade  who  had  enlisted  as  a  minstrel,  and  under  his 
guidance  he  and  Raymond  had  thus  attired  themselves, 
infusing  unheard-of  vitality  into  the  performance  and 
entirely  eclipsing  the  efforts  of  rival  performers. 

Our  delight  knew  no  bounds  and  was  the  means  of 
discovering  my  father's  identity  and  precipitating  his 
retreat  in  a  cab — an  open  fly — which  departed  followed 
by  a  joyful  crowd,  Raymond  and  my  father  still  playing 
bones  and  tambourine  as  they  disappeared  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

In  later  years,  on  my  father's  occasional  engagements 
in  London,  Sunday  was  usually  devoted  to  some  kind 
of  family  outing.  At  one  time  he  became  manager  of 
the  Haymarket  Theatre  in  conjunction  with  John  S. 
Clarke.  Clarke  was  a  curious  man,  and  would  in  the 
oddest  way  avoid  meeting  people  by  gliding  into  a  near- 
by shop.  My  father  delighted  to  see  him  do  this,  and 
then  to  stand  outside  the  shop  admiring  the  things  in 
the  window.  After  a  while  he  would  go  in,  pretending 
not  to  see  Clarke,  but  would  stand  near  him  with  his 
back  to  him.  If  Clarke  tried  to  escape,  my  father  would 
get  into  the  doorway  and,  as  it  were,  "bottle  him  up." 
I  have  seen  him  keep  Clarke  in  a  shop  in  the  Haymarket 
for  an  hour,  Clarke  buying  saws  and  chisels  and  garden 
hose  and  all  sorts  of  things  he  did  not  want  in  order  to 


"THE  BLESSEDS"  93 

avoid  recognition  and  to  explain  his  presence  to  the  shop- 
keeper. At  last  my  father  would  turn  and  cry  with  great 
surprise:  "Hello,  Clarke!  where  did  you  come  from?" 

Clarke  was  a  dear,  kind  fellow  and  sometimes  on  a 
Sunday  would  call  to  take  my  father  and  his  children 
out  for  a  drive.  As  he  brought  his  own  children  with 
him,  a  regular  caravan  would  leave  No.  I  Vere  Street, 
where  my  father  lived  at  the  time.  Clarke  and  my 
father  in  one  vehicle,  two  other  traps  contained  his 
family;  then  came  a  hansom  with  my  father's  man  and 
a  couple  of  dogs,  indispensable  companions  on  all  ex- 
cursions; then  myself  and  my  brother  and  sister  in  an- 
other hansom;  then  my  father's  sister  in  a  Victoria. 
Away  we  would  go,  these  six  or  seven  vehicles,  down 
Oxford  Street  to  Piccadilly  and  out  into  the  country 
past  Kensington,  to  dine  somewhere  by  the  river;  a 
quaint  and  curious  procession  and  a  quaint  and  curious 
outing,  full  of  unknown  and  eagerly  expected  possibilities; 
for  wherever  my  father  adventured  the  fortifications  of 
convention  and  custom  were  likely  to  be  stormed,  to  be 
taken  by  assault.  One  could  never  tell  what  the  day 
might  bring  forth,  or,  as  Don  Quixote  would  say,  what 
monstrous,  strange,  and  incredible  adventures  might  be 
ours,  what  giants  of  absurdity  we  might  encounter,  or 
what  distressed  damsels  or  enchanted  knights  errant  we 
might  not  deliver  from  their  conceits  and  delusions. 


XII 
UNCLE  CHARLEY 

MY  father  had  an  odd  but  quite  effective  way  of  doing 
things.  He  once  sent  to  an  employment  office  and  told 
the  proprietor  to  send  him  the  very  best  cook  obtain- 
able. A  portly  and  quite  overwhelming  woman  ap- 
peared. My  father  asked  her  if  she  could  boil  a  potato. 
She  was  speechless.  "Very  well,"  said  my  father,  "go 
and  boil  one,  and  cook  me  a  mutton-chop."  The  portly 
person  sailed  away  and  shortly  a  perfect  potato  and  a 
faultless  mutton-chop  appeared.  "Good,"  said  my 
father,  "you  are  engaged."  That  cook  was  in  our  family 
for  twenty  years. 

When  I  had  reached  the  age  of  eight,  it  was  decided 
that  I  must  go  to  a  boarding-school.  My  father  used 
to  hunt  five  days  a  week,  taking  a  train  from  London 
at  about  five  in  the  morning  to  Warwickshire,  Leicester- 
shire, or  to  Somersetshire,  returning  in  the  evening  to 
play  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre.  One  day  he  went  to 
a  meet  at  Dunchurch,  a  little  village  three  miles  from 
Rugby  in  Warwickshire.  He  always  had  magnificent 
hunters,  and  when  he  would  start  on  these  occasions 
from  our  house  in  Kensington,  my  brothers  and  my 
sister  and  I  would  shout  with  glee  from  our  nursery 
window.  He  in  his  red  coat,  two  or  three  horses,  and 
the  groom  would  be  off  on  their  way  to  the  railway- 
station.  Well,  on  this  day  he  went  to  Dunchurch,  and 
during  the  run  he  found  that  he  and  one  other  well- 
mounted  man  were  far  ahead  of  the  field.  They  began 

94 


UNCLE  CHARLEY  95 

to  talk,  and  it  developed  that  the  other  sportsman  was 
a  schoolmaster,  one  Alfred  A.  Harrison,  who  had  just 
started  a  school  for  small  boys  at  Dunchurch  Lodge. 
"Good,"  said  my  father,  as  they  took  a  fence  together, 
"I'll  send  you  my  boy." 

A  few  days  later  I  was  there,  taking  a  tearful  farewell 
of  my  mother,  and  a  few  days  after  that  I  was  running 
after  the  hounds  every  half-holiday,  taking  short  cuts 
across  the  country  to  the  spinney  where  we  knew  the 
fox  would  be,  or  where  experience  had  shown  he  would 
make  for.  I  was  for  six  years  at  that  school,  and  when 
I  left  it  I  took  my  brother  Sam  up,  and  he  was  there  six 
years,  too.  We  are  neither  of  us  scholars,  but  we  would 
not  barter  those  dear  years  for  much  learning. 

I  never  go  to  England  but  I  go  to  Dunchurch.  The 
school  no  longer  exists.  Some  years  since,  on  one  of  my 
visits,  I  viewed  the  charred  remains  of  the  old  house. 
A  large  tree  was  growing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  which 
used  to  be  my  dear  old  master's  study.  Another  large 
tree  grew  in  the  room  into  which  my  mother  had  taken 
me  at  eight  years  of  age  to  confront  the  spirit  of  learning; 
it  grew  from  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  its  branches 
went  out  at  the  windows — the  "Tree  of  Knowledge," 
I  said  to  myself.  I  stood  and  looked  at  it  for  an  hour, 
and  I  lived  over  again  all  the  love  and  care  and  happiness 
I  had  known  in  that  house,  and  I  was  quite  sure  that 
every  leaf  on  that  tree  was  a  blessing  from  the  heart 
of  some  little  child  who  has  found  love  and  shelter  under 
that  fallen  roof. 

Then  I  went  to  the  Duncow,  the  village  inn,  and  I  sat 
in  the  tap-room  after  a  meal  and  said  to  a  beer-bibber: 
"Oh,  yes,  I  was  at  school  here."  "Where?"  interposed 
the  landlord.  "Over  there,  at  Dunchurch  Lodge." 


96  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"That  was  never  a  school,"  said  he.  "Oh,  yes  it  was," 
said  I,  "and  I  was  there  for  six  years."  He  smiled  on 
me  with  pity  in  his  eye.  "Well,  I  have  lived  here  thirty 
years,"  said  he,  "and  I  never  heard  of  no  school  there." 
Two  negatives  make  an  affirmative.  "Aha!"  said  I, 
"it  was  forty-five  years  ago  that  I  was  a  schoolboy." 
You  see,  I  came  near  being  the  oldest  inhabitant. 

There  is  a  pair  of  stocks  outside  the  Duncow.  In 
ancient  times  the  passing  malefactor  was  made  to  sit 
on  a  bench,  and  his  ankles  were  placed  in  two  holes  in 
a  thick  plank  which  faced  him,  and  his  wrists  in  two 
other  holes,  and  there  he  sat  padlocked,  and  perhaps 
repentant.  I  have  seen  a  man  in  those  stocks,  the  one 
bad  man  who  had  passed  that  way  in  half  a  century. 
So  I  looked  at  the  stocks,  and  I  looked  at  the  church 
tower  whence  I  had  heard  the  moping  owl  to  the  moon 
complain,  and  I  looked  at  the  cottage  which  legend  de- 
clares was  the  rendezvous  of  Guy  Fawkes  and  his  fellow 
conspirators,  and  I  looked  at  the  "Tuck  Shop"  across 
the  street,  and  I  felt  very  lonely. 

This  same  Tuck  Shop !  I  had  an  uncle  who  lived  in 
Coventry  hard  by,  a  dear  fellow  but  with  a  Mephisto- 
phelian  humor.  He  used  to  drive  over  to  Dunchurch 
in  a  mail  phaeton  with  two  of  the  largest  horses  I  ever 
saw,  with  much  clanking  of  chains  and  much  frothing 
of  mouths,  and  he  would  take  me  to  this  Tuck  Shop. 
"Go  and  get  your  chum,"  he  would  say.  Hotfoot  I  would 
fetch  him  (one  Freeling,  where  is  he  now  ?).  Panting,  we 
would  greet  him — Uncle  Charley.  "Now,  then,"  he  would 
say  with  a  steely  gleam  in  his  eye,  "pitch  in."  When  we 
had  eaten  incredibly,  and  paused  to  breathe,  "Do  you 
feel  sick  yet?"  would  exclaim  Uncle  Charley.  "No," 
we  would  reply.  "Well,  try  some  of  those!"  pointing 
to  a  deadly  looking  bottle  of  bullet-like  sweets.  "Ah, 


Duncow  Inn  The  stocks 

DUNCHURCH,    NEAR    RUGBY 


The  jail 


UNCLE  CHARLEY  97 

do  you  feel  sick,  yet  ?"  "No."  "Don't  you  feel  sick  ?" 
to  my  dear  Freeling.  "Not  yet!"  "Give  them  some  of 
those  things  on  the  shelf  there,"  answered  Uncle  Charley. 
"Now"  (after  some  watchful  waiting),  "now  you  feel 
sick,  don't  you?"  "No,  sir,"  we  would  grin.  "Well, 
I'll  be  hanged,"  would  declare  the  avuncular  one.  "Here ! 
Here's  half  a  sovereign  each  for  you.  I'm  off."  Dash ! 
would  go  the  horses.  Clang!  would  go  the  chains. 
Slash !  would  go  the  whip,  and  away  went  Uncle  Char- 
ley !  Sick !  We !  He  knew  us  not.  Patent  insides  had 
we.  A-i,  copper-lined,  indestructible,  such  appetites  for 
everything  but  learning ! 

We  did  absorb  many  bits  of  information,  for  we  were 
surrounded  by  a  general  persistent  endeavor.  Such  dear, 
kind  fellows  were  our  four  masters !  And  our  drawing- 
master!  When  I  went  to  take  my  brother  Sam  to  this 
school,  the  drawing-class  was  in  session.  I  had  just 
gone  on  the  stage.  At  thirteen  years  the  master  had 
had  some  hopes  of  me  as  a  painter.  "Hello,"  said  he, 
"how  is  the  art?"  "Oh,  I  have  given  it  up,"  said  I, 
"I  have  taken  to  acting."  "Traitor,"  said  he,  slowly 
and  sadly,  and  he  turned  away.  He  was  a  poor,  very 
poor  man  of  about  fifty.  He  walked  three  miles  to  Dun- 
church  and  three  miles  back  to  Rugby  twice  a  week  to 
give  little  boys  lessons  in  drawing.  He  wore  a  slouch- 
hat  and  a  cropped  beard,  and  he  sang  all  the  time.  I 
can't  walk  far  without  being  tired,  and  I  never  sing  at 
all.  Well,  he  gave  me  a  prize  for  drawing — "Self-Help," 
by  Smiles,  a  book  that  I  read  with  delight;  it  has  helped 
me  a  good  deal. 

Mr.  Harrison  said  to  us:  "What  you  know  is  much. 
What  you  are  is  more" 

Whenever  we  told  tales  of  each  other,  whenever  we 
did  any  small  thing  that  was  punishable,  Mr.  Harrison 


98  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

would  say:  "Do  you  think  a  little  gentleman  would  do 
that  ?"  We  did  not  think  so,  and  we  felt  it,  and  we  said 
nothing,  but  thought  much. 

Since  they  have  reached  manhood,  I  have  met  many 
of  the  boys  in  that  school.  I  have  never  met  one  who 
was  not  a  man  of  character,  and  I  have  met  some  who 
were  men  of  distinction.  Soldiers,  lawyers,  doctors,  all 
professions.  They  ran  after  hounds,  candy  wouldn't 
make  them  sick.  But  while  they  ran  and  while  they 
ate,  they  had  in  their  eager  little  hearts  examples  of 
sweet  and  kind  nobility,  daily  and  hourly  before  them  in 
the  persons  of  this  dear  master  and  his  wife  and  aids, 
that  have  moulded  many  of  them  in  the  years  that  have 
since  come.  "Would  a  little  gentleman  do  that  ?"  might 
be  nailed  up  to  the  extinction  even  of  "God  Bless  Our 
Home." 

I  don't  think  I  gleaned  much  learning  at  that  school, 
and  these  precepts  so  readily  applauded  are  hard  to 
maintain.  But  it  is  not  my  remembrance  of  Colenso, 
nor  of  Euclid,  nor  of  Caesar's  Commentaries,  nor  my 
adoration  of  the  multiplication  table,  that  takes  me 
back  to  Dunchurch  each  succeeding  year;  nor  is  it  the 
Tuck  Shop,  for  my  taste  for  sugar  is  not  what  it  was. 
But  be  it  what  it  may,  it  is  something  that  I  must  sat- 
isfy, or  want. 

My  brother  Sam  was  more  of  a  scholar  than  I,  sorely 
against  his  will,  as  this  letter,  saved  from  the  scant  corre- 
spondence of  his  anxious  childhood,  will  testify. 

MY  DEAR  MA: 

I  ham  so  hunape.  Please  send  me  twelve  stamps. 
Has  the  black  cack  killed  any  more  piggins.  Do  kill  it. 
I  yours  lovin  son  SAM. 

P.  S.    I  am  still  learning  Greek. 


UNCLE  CHARLEY  99 

Now,  this  is  an  ideal  document.  Sam's  ignorance  of 
English  and  his  hatred  of  the  classics  make  up  the  moral 
of  this  story.  As  I  look  back  on  it,  I  say:  "Sam  is 
Sam.  Greek  is  only  Greek."  Sam  has  ever  been  aware 
of  this  fact.  It  is  only  dawning  on  me  at  this  late 
hour. 

Sam's  philosophy  and  strange  wisdom  are  instanced 
by  another  story.  An  adorable  master  named  Walker 
was  expounding  the  fifth  proposition  of  Euclid  to  Sam's 
class  of  six  boys,  whose  toes  did  not  touch  the  floor. 
Walker  reduced  the  proposition  to  an  absurdity,  Sam 
steadily  star-gazing,  and  then  with  blackboard  and 
chalk  laboriously  proved  its  sanity.  Suddenly  pointing 
a  long  finger  at  Sam's  open  mouth,  he  cried:  "Go  on, 
Sam."  Sam  looked  addled  for  a  moment,  and  then 
murmured:  "Which  is  absurd."  "Write  it  out  ten 
times,"  said  Walker. 

We  had  our  own  separate  gardens  at  this  school. 
We  delved  and  we  garnered,  and  we  were  allowed  to  have 
our  produce  cooked  and  served.  Whenever  the  hounds 
were  in  the  village,  a  boy,  usually  the  head  boy  (almost 
ten  or  eleven  years  old),  would  say  after  breakfast, 
"Half-holiday!  Three  cheers  for  Mr.  Harrison!"  We 
knew  Mr.  Harrison  was  eager  for  the  fray.  "You 
owls!"  he  would  say.  ("Owls"  he  ever  called  us,  the 
bird  of  wisdom,  observe,  Minerva's  chicken.)  "You 
owls !  go  on,  away  with  you."  And  away  it  was.  Such 
red  blood  dashing  through  such  young  hearts,  such 
cries,  such  flying  over  hedges,  such  friendships,  such 
vows,  such  memories ! 

Was  not  my  father  wise  to  know  that  to  cook  a  potato 
superbly  was  to  be  a  good  cook,  and  that  a  schoolmaster 
who  could  ride  gamely  to  hounds,  must  be  a  good  school- 


ioo  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

master?    May  not  a  potato  be  as  good  as  a  feast,  and 
may  not  he  who  runs  gayly  read  wisely  ? 

Greek!  I  learned  none.  Latin,  less.  Often  have  I 
bewailed  this  loss.  But  there  has  been  something  else, 
of  no  value — of  all  value.  Not  a  penny  in  it.  Hard  to 
explain.  But  it  takes  me  back  to  Dunchurch  every 
year,  and  will  do  so  till  I  die. 


XIII 
A  "DAWDLER" 

"HE'S  a  *  dawdler'!"  said  Mr.  Snelling,  really  in  a 
tone  of  denunciation,  and  exhibiting,  in  the  agitation 
of  his  dear  old  face  and  his  patriarchal  yellow-white 
beard,  distinct  signs  of  storm  and  stress.  "He  is  a 
'dawdler'!  He  absolutely  refuses  to  learn  1  He  is  a 
'dawdler'!" 

"What  is  a  'dawdler'?  "  inquired  "Ta"  of  Rebecca, 
much  crestfallen  and  depressed  by  an  accusation  which, 
although  indefinite,  seemed  somehow  to  be  surely  de- 
grading if  not  felonious. 

"You  know  well  enough!"  said  Rebecca,  thus  veiling 
her  own  ignorance.  "A  'dawdler'  is  a  person  who  daw- 
dles. I  am  ashamed  of  you." 

With  much  misgiving  and  great  labor  "Ta"  fingered 
the  dictionary  and  spelled  out  this  definition:  "To 
waste  time  in  trifling  employment." 

"As  what,  for  instance?"  thought  "Ta."  "Dreaming 
perhaps  ?  or  singing  ?  or  wondering  about  things  gen- 
erally?" 

"A  dawdler!  is  he?"  said  "Ta's"  father.  "We'll  see 
about  that!  What  is  seven  times  nine?"  said  he  to 
"Ta,"  very  suddenly,  on  entering  the  nursery. 

"Ta"  solved  this  conundrum  with  alacrity.  It  was  one 
of  the  wearisome  things  he  had  laboriously  acquired. 

"What  year  did  King  Stephen  come  to  the  throne?" 
"Ta"  demanded  of  his  father,  aglow  with  conscious  wis- 
dom, and  resolved  to  "undawdle"  himself  here  and  now. 

XOI 


102  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"I'm  hanged  if  I  know,"  admitted  "TaV  father,  re- 
garding his  son  with  undisguised  admiration. 

"Stephen  to  seize  the  throne  did  contrive  in  eleven 
hundred  and  thirty-five!"  repeated  "Ta"  sturdily,  and 
preparing  for  a  further  outflow  of  knowledge. 

"The  boy's  a  marvel!"  cried  "Ta's"  father. 

"Dublin  is  the  capital  of  Ireland,"  continued  "Ta" 
volubly,  somewhat  flushed  with  triumph  and  with  ac- 
quittal well  in  sight.  "It  stands  on  the  river  Liffey. 
The  population  of  the  city  is  249,602.  It  sends  two 
members  to  Parliament.  The  chief  manufacture  is 
poplin,  which  is  much  celebrated.  The  main  branches 
of  industry " 

"That  will  do,"  said  "Ta's"  father,  and  he  embraced 
"Ta"  tenderly,  and  made  anxious  inquiries  about  his 
health  and  his  appetite.  "Ta"  heard  him,  later,  de- 
clare to  "Ta's"  mother  that  they  must  be  very  careful 
or  he  would  have  cerebral  fever  or  water  on  the  brain, 
or  perhaps  even  lose  his  reason.  "The  boy's  a  prodigy !" 
said  "Ta's"  father.  "He  knows  more  useless  things 
than  any  lad  I  ever  heard  of."  As  he  kissed  "Ta"  good 
night  that  evening  he  mentioned  that  he  was  off,  on  the 
morrow,  to  play  in  Liverpool. 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  "Ta."  "Liverpool  is  the  capital  of 
Lancashire.  The  population  is " 

But  "Ta's"  father  interrupted  by  hugging  him  ^furi- 
ously and  declaring  that  he  was  being  overworked. 

Next  morning  "Ta's"  father  plunged  into  a  sort  of 
whirlwind  of  hansom  cabs,  and  trunks,  and  farewells, 
and  directions  that  all  the  children  should  have  their  feet 
in  mustard  and  water.  There  was  much  also  about  lin- 
seed tea,  and  Epsom  salts,  and  Gregory's  powders,  and 
vows  to  write  frequently  and  declarations  of  what  we 


A  "DAWDLER"  103 

all  wanted  at  Christmas,  "TaV  sister  especially  insisting 
that  nothing  would  satisfy  her  but  a  certain  lion  from 
the  "Lowther  Arcade." 

Said  "Ta"  at  this:  "The  lion  is  the  most  majestic  and 
ferocious  of  carnivorous  quadrupeds,  chiefly  an  inhabi- 
tant of  Africa  although  it  is  found  also " 

But  here  "Ta's"  father  drove  away  sorely  perplexed 
concerning  "Ta's"  sanity,  and  calling  out  that  certain 
precautions  should  be  taken  in  regard  to  sleep  and  diet. 

The  truth  was  that,  although  "Ta"  was  actually  well 
acquainted  with  the  facts  which  had  been  divulged  in 
the  course  of  his  ordeals  at  the  Snelling  Academy,  it 
had  never  occurred  to  him  to  use  this  miscellaneous 
knowledge  in  daily  conversation.  It  would  seem,  how- 
ever, that  one's  reputation  for  learning  depended  greatly 
on  imparting  information  in  and  out  of  season,  and  on 
making  even  one's  bread  and  butter  a  source  of  intel- 
ligence and  commentary.  It  was  evident  that  to  be  a 
"dawdler "was  discreditable;  that  to  possess  knowledge 
and  never  mention  it  would  be  apt  to  brand  one  as  a 
person  who  "wasted  time  in  trifling  employment,"  such 
as  gazing  at  the  sky,  or  wool-gathering,  or  minding  one's 
own  business. 

When  Pointer  brought  the  pony  round  in  the  morn- 
ing, "Ta"  startled  him  by  saying,  apropos  of  nothing  at 
all:  "Four  times  eight  is  thirty-two!" 

"Beg  pardon,  sir!"  said  Pointer. 

"I  said,"  replied  "Ta,"  "that  the  battle  of  Crecy  was 
fought  in  1346." 

"Oh!"  said  Pointer. 

"And,"  continued  "Ta,"  "that  the  distance  from  the 
earth  to  the  moon  is  237,600  miles." 

Pointer  was  so  deeply  impressed  by  these  abstruse 


104  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

statements  that  he  was  overwhelmed  by  a  settled  gloom 
during  the  ride  in  the  park.  On  the  return  home  Re- 
becca was  encountered  in  the  hall  bearing  a  flower-pot 
containing  lilies. 

"How  did  you  enjoy  your  ride?"  asked  Rebecca. 

"The  white  lily,"  replied  "Ta,"  "is  a  native  of  the 
Levant.  It  has  long  been  cultivated  in  gardens  and 
much  sung  by  poets." 

"What's  that?"  said  Rebecca. 

"I  assure  you,"  said  "Ta,"  "that  three  plus  eight  plus 
four  is  fifteen." 

"Good  gracious!"  cried  Rebecca. 

"Isn't  he  a  wonder!"  whispered  Pointer. 

"I  should  say  a  genius!"  said  Rebecca. 

"Ta's"  fame  spread  rapidly.  Fanny  Marsh,  the  cook, 
looked  fairly  stunned  when  "Ta"  assured  her  that  a 
cabbage  was  "a  plant  in  general  cultivation  for  culinary 
purposes,"  and  that  "the  cod  was  a  fish  almost  rivalling 
the  herring  in  its  importance  to  mankind." 

"Such  cleverness  is  not  natural,"  said  she.  "I've 
been  a  cook  for  thirty  years  and  I  know  what  I'm  talk- 
ing about." 

The  circle  thus  impressed  by  "Ta's"  erudition  was,  of 
course,  small.  Excellence  is  comparative,  and  there  were 
people  who  were  by  no  means  astonished  at  his  informa- 
tion, although  eyebrows  were  raised  at  his  unusual 
manner  of  imparting  it,  for  it  was  startling  for  staid 
ladies,  when  asking  after  "Ta's"  health,  to  receive  the 
reply  that  "Watt  Tyler's  rebellion  occurred  in  1381, 
during  the  reign  of  King  Richard  II." 

"Ta's"  desire  to  eliminate  the  stain  of  "dawdler"  from 
his  record  seemed  practically  realized.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Snelling  maintained  their  opinion;  but  "Ta's"  father  and 


A  "DAWDLER"  105 

mother,  Pointer,  Sarah,  Rebecca,  and  the  gardener  were 
convinced  that  "Ta"  was  greatly  misjudged,  and  was  in- 
deed a  scholar  of  no  mean  parts.  The  impression  gained 
ground  among  "Ta's"  adherents  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Snel- 
ling  were  jealous  of  his  attainments,  and  that  he  made 
them  look  small  before  the  intellectual  world.  Sarah 
("Kluklums")  indeed  was  heard  to  declare  that  if  "Ta" 
was  a  "dawdler"  she  would  "die  on  the  road." 

"The  child  has  a  perfect  passion  for  learning,"  wrote 
"Ta's"  aunt  to  his  mother.  "I  am  terrified  for  fear  he  will 
become  a  schoolmaster,  or  perhaps  go  into  politics.  I 
think  he  should  cultivate  athletics,  and  should  eliminate 
the  study  of  the  classics  from  his  curriculum." 

"Ta"  overheard  his  aunt  offer  this  opinion  to  Rebecca, 
and  concluded  that  his  "curriculum"  was  his  head. 
On  bumping  that  member  against  a  table,  therefore,  he 
announced  that  he  had  a  pain  in  his  "curriculum." 

It  was  at  this  time  that  "Ta"  went  to  school  at  Dun- 
church,  and  was  distressed  to  find  that  part  of  his  torture 
was  to  be  the  continued  study  of  Greek  and  Latin;  hence 
that  historic  letter  in  which  he  announced  that  he  was 
"hunape"  and  wailed  in  his  misery:  "I  am  still  learning 
Greek." 

Most  children  would  have  escaped  distasteful  study 
by  an  assumption  of  stupidity.  "Ta's"  discovery  that  a 
little  knowledge  was  not  only  a  dangerous  but  a  terri- 
fying thing  had  many  elements  of  novelty  and  exhibited 
that  penetration  into  human  motives  heretofore  re- 
marked upon. 

"One  often  hears  that  people  die  from  overstudy," 
said  "Ta's"  mother. 

"Frequently  they  go  mad,"  said  "Ta's"  father. 

"Knowledge  is  power,"  declared  "Ta's"  mentor,  and 


106  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

proceeded  to  illustrate  that  statement  by  writing  on  the 
blackboard,  "Balbus  is  building  a  wall."  How  the 
possession  of  that  fact,  even  in  Latin,  could  add  to  his 
dominion,  present  or  future,  "Ta"  was  unable  to  perceive. 

To  most  children  the  pursuit  of  learning  does  not 
partake  of  the  pleasures  of  the  chase.  The  sport  is  not 
made  either  beautiful  or  fascinating,  nor  is  the  object 
to  be  attained  so  explained  and  illuminated  as*to  create 
desire.  The  process  assumes  the  sombre  hue  of  a  task; 
indeed,  it  is  mostly  so  designated,  and  the  little  mind  so 
eager  to  know  and  so  full  of  wonder  and  strange  ques- 
tionings is  dulled  and  tortured  by  restraint,  and  the 
wearisome  accumulation  of  means  to  an  end  not  seen. 
Had  "Ta"  been  told  by  some  eloquent  and  kindly  tongue 
of  all  "the  glory  that  was  Greece  and  the  grandeur  that 
was  Rome,"  his  imagination,  thus  fed,  might  have 
craved  a  knowledge  of  the  former  as  a  favor  for  being  a 
good  boy,  and  have  felt  some  enthusiasm  concerning 
the  inexplicable  mania  of  Balbus  for  the  construction 
of  walls.  As  it  was,  the  mere  thought  of  those  defunct 
languages  gave  him  a  pain  in  his  "curriculum,"  and  the 
derangement  of  Balbus,  which  resulted  in  mural  con- 
struction infinite  and  apparently  purposeless,  excited 
extreme  disgust  and  positive  aversion. 

The  result  was  that  "Ta,"  having  established  at  home 
a  dread  that  overwork  would  deprive  him  of  reason, 
was  not  permitted  to  wrestle  with  the  classics,  but  in 
order  to  preserve  his  sanity  he  was  taught  to  ride  to 
hounds,  and  very  learnedly  hunted  three  or  four  times 
a  week. 

"Ta's"  own  private  language,  which  had  once  been 
the  secret  means  of  communication  between  himself  and 
"Kluklums,"  had  of  late  been  discarded,  greatly  to  the 


A  "DAWDLER"  107 

loss  of  the  science  of  philology.  But  "  Kluklums's  "  soul, 
quick  to  note  any  inclination  in  the  tactics  of  her  adored 
"Prince,"  humbly  sought  to  interpret  his  statements, 
geographical,  mathematical,  historical,  and  botanical, 
and  thereby  landed  herself  in  what,  to  another,  would 
have  been  rather  embarrassing  dilemmas. 

She  perceived  in  these  scraps  of  lore  a  code  or  cipher 
such  as  is  reputed  to  prevail  in  the  "agony  column"  of 
the  newspapers  for  the  convenience  of  lovers  and  burglars, 
and  she  cudgelled  her  brains  to  translate  them  into  deeds 
responsive.  When,  for  instance,  "Ta"  would  remark,  in 
reply  to  a  request  for  the  time  of  day,  that  "Snowden 
was  3,571  feet  high,"  "Kluklums"  would  add  to  people's 
amazement  by  declaring,  "Yes,  and  I  have  some  in  my 
pocket,"  thereupon  producing  clean  handkerchiefs. 

She  was  fearfully  in  earnest  about  it  and  was  heard  to 
vow  she  would  "die  on  the  road,"  but  she  would  know 
what  Master  "Ta"  meant  by  his  new  manner  of  speech. 

"Ta,"  meanwhile,  never  appeared  in  the  least  surprised 
at  her  interpretations  of  his  statements  and  accepted 
whatever  translation  she  offered  as  though  it  were  the 
one  expected. 

"Ipswich,  the  capital  of  Suffolk,  is  situated  on  the 
river  Orwell,"  would  say  "Ta";"the  population  is  50,762." 

"I  told  her  so,"  would  answer  "Kluklums,"  "and  she 
said  she  would  be  home  to  tea  at  five  o'clock." 

It  is  a  curious  thing  that  "Ta's"  campaign,  undertaken 
with  the  purpose  of  controverting  the  assertion  that  he 
was  a  "dawdler"  and  continued  as  a  means  of  escape 
from  a  study  of  Greek  and  Latin,  ended  by  making  him 
a  regular  dictionary  of  universal  information,  which  he 
continues  to  be  to  this  day.  In  times  of  national  stress 
and  uncertainty  people  say:  "Ask  'Ta' !  What  does  'Ta' 


io8  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

say?"  in  moments  of  private  need  or  doubt,  "'Ta'  will 
know,"  or  "'Ta'  will  tell  us  what  to  do"  has  become  a 
commonplace.  The  force  of  habit  is  illustrated  by  the 
fact  that  when  recently  in  New  York  "Ta"  was,  in  com- 
pany with  several  other  persons,  the  occupant  of  an 
elevator  which  fell  some  ten  stories  to  the  basement  of 
a  tall  building.  He  extricated  himself  without  haste 
from  the  distracted  and  agitated  crowd  and  remarked, 
as  though  continuing  a  train  of  thought:  "Yes,  and  for 
the  Saint  Leger,  I  would  advise  you  to  lay  12  to  4  on 
Beeswax.  If  past  performances  count  for  anything  he's 
bound  to  win." 

Those  who  know  him  not  thought  this  was  a  pose  on 
"Ta's"  part,  but  "Kluklums"  and  I  are  aware  that:  "If 
you  bring  up  a  child  in  the  way  he  should  go,  he  will 
seldom  depart  therefrom." 


PART  II 

HUGH 


XIV 
HUGH 

IF  you  have  read  "Tristram  Shandy,"  you  will  re- 
member Uncle  Toby's  defense  of  the  redoubt  built  by 
Corporal  Trim,  and  how  the  ancient  warrior  puffed 
pipe  after  pipe  of  tobacco  smoke  from  his  stronghold  to 
represent  the  firing  of  cannon  to  the  annihilation  of  an 
imaginary  foe,  and  perhaps  you  thought  such  conduct 
quite  childish  on  the  part  of  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman. 
Such  a  conclusion  depends  entirely  upon  the  point  of 
view.  One  may  be  as  a  little  child  and  not  at  all  ridiculous 
or  unreasonable  to  some  people.  I  happen  to  have  known 
a  little  child  who  had  just  such  a  relative  as  my  Uncle 
Toby,  and  this  little  child  thought,  and  still  thinks, 
that  his  uncle — Uncle  Hugh  was  his  name — was  by  far 
the  noblest  and  sanest  person  he  ever  met,  although  most 
grown-up  people  were  quite  sure  he  was  as  mad  as  a 
hatter,  erratic  as  a  March  hare. 

These  are  some  of  the  things  that  made  them  think 
so:  Uncle  Hugh  distrusted  all  grown-up  people.  He 
did  not  like  them.  He  adored  little  children,  and  was  a 
child  again  when  he  was  with  them.  Although  he  was  a 
poor  man,  he  kept  an  old  asthmatic  dog  for  many  years 
in  luxury  in  a  loose  box  in  London.  In  another  loose 
box  he  kept  an  old  horse,  a  victim  of  all  the  ills  horse- 
flesh is  heir  to.  I  used  to  go  with  him  to  see  these  for- 
tunate animals,  but  he  would  never  take  grown-up  peo- 
ple to  visit  them. 


ii2  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Uncle  Hugh  and  I  were  walking  opposite  the  Knights- 
bridge  barracks  one  day  when  a  cavalry  regiment  which 
had  seen  service  in  one  of  England's  "little  wars"  came 
in  sight.  They  had  come  home.  Some  were  wounded 
and  wore  bandages.  Many  a  horseman  led  a  riderless 
horse,  and  on  each  side  of  the  saddle  of  many  such  a 
riderless  horse,  with  foot  in  stirrup,  had  been  secured 
the  tall  guardsman's  boots  of  the  dead  soldier,  while 
some  garments  of  the  absent  rider  were  attached  to  the 
pommel. 

"That  is  the  way  my  horse  came  home,"  said  Uncle 
Hugh. 

I  was  well  aware  that  Uncle  Hugh  loved  this  horse 
which  he  never  rode.  For  fifteen  years  he  had  kept 
him — a  big  chestnut  with  white  stockings — in  a  stable 
near  Saint  James  Street.  It  seemed  a  strange  thing  for  a 
poor  man  to  do;  you  can't  keep  a  horse  in  London  for 
nothing,  it  must  cost  about  three  pounds  a  week;  that 
is  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year.  When  a  man 
has  an  income  of  only  five  hundred  a  year,  this  is  a 
serious  item. 

"How  did  your  horse  come  home,  Uncle  Hugh?" 
said  I. 

It  appeared  that  Hugh  once  had  a  very  dear  friend,  a 
soldier,  an  officer  in  a  cavalry  regiment.  In  a  certain 
engagement,  during  a  "little  war,"  this  friend  had  been 
fatally  wounded  and  had  fallen  from  his  horse.  After 
the  charge,  which  had  resulted  so  seriously,  the  horse 
of  the  officer,  running  wild  over  the  field,  had  found  his 
master,  and  had  stood  over  him,  neighing  and,  as  it  were, 
calling,  calling  for  help.  Those  searching  for  the  wounded 
were  attracted  to  the  spot.  The  injured  man  was  picked 
up  and  taken  to  a  field-hospital.  He  lingered  for  an  hour 


HUGH  113 

and  then  died.  On  a  piece  of  paper  he  had  scrawled  these 
words:  "Hugh,  I  am  dying.  Take  care  of  my  horse." 
The  letter  had  been  taken  from  his  tunic,  it  was  stained 
with  blood. 

Hugh  was  at  home  on  the  steeds  of  Father  Neptune, 
but  an  English  hunter,  turned  charger,  was  of  no  use 
to  him.  Still,  there  was  the  message  from  his  dead 
comrade;  there  was  the  letter  with  its  injunction 
stamped  in  blood. 

Hugh,  when  I  first  recall  him,  arrived  at  my  father's 
house  in  his  naval  uniform.  He  wore  the  long  side- 
whiskers  of  the  day — 1865.  His  sea  chest  was  full  of 
treasures  which  he  soon  disclosed  to  me.  He  gave  me 
at  once  a  nautical  telescope  with  the  flags  of  all  nations 
on  the  outside  of  it,  a  mariner's  compass,  a  small  piece  of 
the  lately  laid  Atlantic  cable,  "Peter  Parley's  Tales,"  and 
the  "Ingoldsby  Legends."  He  showed  me  his  sword, 
and  I  soon  became  his  constant  companion.  As  usual, 
the  grown-ups  found  him  a  bit  odd.  But  I  was  able  to 
entertain  him.  There  was  a  rockery  in  the  garden  and 
a  kind  of  cave  in  it.  There  it  was  my  habit  to  be 
shipwrecked  constantly,  sometimes  with  imaginary  fol- 
lowers, sometimes  with  any  companions  accident  might 
provide.  The  surrounding  lawn  easily  became  the 
boundless  ocean,  with  no  friendly  sail  in  sight  from  day 
to  day,  and  a  fountain,  which  imagination  could  readily 
obliterate,  could,  when  circumstances  demanded,  become 
the  long-looked-for  ship  of  rescue.  This  I  soon  explained 
to  Uncle  Hugh,  who  saw  nothing  unusual  in  these  ar- 
rangements. On  the  contrary,  he  suggested  many  splen- 
did "improvements."  We  went  through  untold  agonies 
from  starvation  in  the  cave,  and  boarded  the  fountain 
(having  approached  it  under  fire),  seized  the  crew  (my 


ii4  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

young  sister),  made  them  walk  the  plank,  and  occasionally 
hanged  them  to  the  yard-arm.  One  great  day,  Hugh  ar- 
ranged that  when  he  should  call  for  me  at  the  small 
school  I  attended,  we  should  enlist  some  of  the  other 
children,  and  that  a  fierce  attack  should  be  made  on 
the  cave.  I  and  my  party  were  not  to  know  whence 
to  expect  the  danger.  I  lay  in  the  cave  with  the  large 
nautical  telescope  scanning  the  horizon  when,  to  my 
great  excitement,  I  saw  Hugh  climb  over  the  garden 
wall  from  the  street,  sword  in  hand.  I  at  once  manned 
the  long-boat  (a  box  in  which  croquet  mallets  were  kept) 
and  started  to  meet  and  destroy  the  foe,  when,  to  my 
terror,  a  policeman  appeared  on  the  wall  beside  my 
adored  uncle,  seized  him  by  the  neck,  and  the  two  dis- 
appeared into  the  street.  I  and  my  reckless  crew  paled 
with  fear.  The  law  had  us  in  its  "clutch."  Hugh  would 
surely  be  hanged  in  the  Tower  of  London,  or  perhaps 
burned  at  the  stake.  Wails  of  anguish  arose  from  the 
long-boat,  as,  careless  of  the  hungry  ocean,  we  jumped 
from  it  on  to  the  lawn.  At  this  awful  moment,  however, 
Hugh  appeared  safe  and  sound  at  the  garden  door. 

"Where  is  the  policeman?"  I  cried. 

"Dead !"  said  Hugh,  "and  since  we  have  had  no  food 
for  ten  days,  we  will  eat  him." 

During  a  dinner  at  the  house  of  Hugh's  sister  one  day 
a  man  at  the  table  asked  the  hostess  how  she  happened 
to  have  on  the  wall  the  picture  of  one  Commissioner 
Yeh,  the  leader  of  the  Chinese  rebellion  of  1858,  who 
had  distinguished  himself  by  beheading  100,000  of  his 
opponents,  and  he  proceeded  to  recount  the  daring  ex- 
ploit of  a  young  naval  officer  who,  during  the  siege  of 
Canton,  accompanied  a  small  band  of  about  100  men, 
led  by  Captain  Key  of  her  Majesty's  ship  Sans  Pareil. 


HUGH  115 

With  most  reckless  daring  these  few  made  their  way  into 
the  very  centre  of  the  hostile  city.  They  found  the 
hiding-place  of  the  head  and  front  and  instigator  of  the 
rebellion,  Commissioner  Yeh.  They  entered  his  abode. 
Captain  Key  arrested  him,  and  the  coxswain  of  the 
party  (Hugh),  seizing  the  Chinaman's  pigtail  wrapped 
it  several  times  around  his  wrist,  thus  rendering  him 
powerless.  The  rebel,  who  was  a  huge,  fat  man,  was 
then  conducted  through  the  city  of  Canton  and  on  to 
the  man-of-war.  The  Chinese  were  so  amazed  that  not 
a  shot  was  fired  until  the  sailors  were  well  out  in  the 
stream.  This  capture  practically  put  an  end  to  the  re- 
bellion. 

My  aunt  pointed  to  the  fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  childish- 
looking  Hugh,  who  by  this  time  was  covered  with  con- 
fusion. "It  was  Hugh,"  said  my  aunt. 

"What  was  Hugh  ?"  asked  the  narrator. 

"Hugh  captured  Commissioner  Yeh." 

Everybody  laughed  as  at  a  good  joke.  She  might 
as  well  have  declared  that  I,  a  little  boy,  had  done  the 
daring  deed.  Hugh  turned  her  talk  away  from  the 
danger-point  by  some  quite  childish  and  irrelevant  non- 
sense, and  no  more  was  said.  No  one  believed  it.  But 
it  was  the  fact.  Quixotic  Hugh,  the  companion  of  chil- 
dren, the  lover  of  his  old  horse  and  his  superannuated 
dog,  had  done  this  thing. 

Uncle  Hugh  lived  alone  without  a  servant  in  one  small 
room  at  the  top  of  a  house  in  Waterloo  Place.  Occasion- 
ally he  would  move  to  Richmond  for  a  few  weeks,  to 
the  Richmond  Club,  and  to  a  few  chosen  friends  (chil- 
dren) he  would  exhibit  a  certain  dog-kennel  he  had 
invented  which,  by  means  of  intricate  tackle,  could  be 
pulled  up  into  a  tree  so  that  the  dog  might  be  placed  in 


ii6  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

it  at  night  and  hauled  up  out  of  the  way  of  dangerous 
reptiles  and  wild  beasts.  He  kept,  at  a  coachmaker's 
in  London,  a  dog-cart  of  his  invention.  When  your 
horse  should  run  away,  you  had  only  to  pull  a  lever,  and 
the  shafts  separated  from  the  cart,  which  would  come 
to  a  standstill  while  the  horse  would  continue  his  wild 
career  with  the  shafts  attached  to  him.  I  think,  how- 
ever, there  was  a  line  fastened  to  the  harness  with  which 
the  horse  could  be  thrown. 

All  the  furniture  and  ornaments  and  other  necessary 
belongings  in  Uncle  Hugh's  room  at  the  top  of  the  house 
could  be  seized  with  the  greatest  suddenness,  and  in  the 
most  unexpected  manner  could  be  gathered  into  pack- 
ages and  chests,  and  prepared,  in  a  wink,  for  any  kind 
of  an  expedition  to  any  place  on  the  planet.  I  saw  it 
done.  There  was  a  dado  which  looked  like  oak,  it  was 
really  tin;  all  the  chairs  and  tables  and  chests,  the  bed- 
stead, everything,  were  either  receptacles  or  could  be 
collapsed  rapidly.  Like  a  conjurer,  Uncle  Hugh  would 
attack  these  things,  and  literally  in  five  minutes  every 
article  would  be  packed  in  its  exact  place,  ready  to  start 
anywhere. 

People  (grown-up  people)  used  to  think  this  was  the 
mania  of  a  mad  person.  Uncle  Hugh  always  seemed  to 
have  an  idea  that  he  would  be  called  upon  one  day  to  un- 
dertake an  expedition  which  would  necessitate  this  aston- 
ishing activity  and  despatch  in  packing  up.  To  me,  as  a 
child,  it  was  the  most  natural  and  reasonable  way  to  pack 
things.  Why  take  days  and  days  over  it,  if  it  could  be 
done  in  a  moment  ? 

Uncle  Hugh  was  a  sailor,  a  naval  officer  of  distinction. 
At  about  forty  years  of  age  he  had  retired  with  the  rank 
of  captain.  His  room  was  decked  with  trophies  of  the 


HUGH 


"7 


4! 

M 


! 

i 

i 


ii8  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

sea — sharks'  teeth,  harpoons,  cannon,  many  kinds  of 
firearms,  charts,  telescopes,  nautical  instruments,  a  sword 
over  the  mantelpiece,  pistols,  all  the  things  that  children 
adore.  When  Hugh  would  favor  us  with  an  exhibition 
of  his  dexterity  in  preparing  for  "the  expedition,"  he 
would  say:  "Now,  then,  get  ready  !"  He  would  lock  the 
door,  so  as  to  shut  out  intruders,  and  with  much  serious- 
ness he  would  begin:  "You  see  I  am  prepared  to  go 
anywhere  at  a  moment's  notice,  at  the  Queen's  command. 
Now,  we  imagine  that  a  messenger  is  approaching  with 
my  commission.  He  is  at  the  door  below.  He  is  coming 
up  the  stairs,  two  steps  at  a  time  (we  were  on  the  edge  of 
our  chairs  by  this  time,  and  could  assuredly  hear  the 
steps  on  the  stone  stairs  without).  He  knocks  at  the 
door.  He  enters.  I  take  the  blue  envelope  and  open  it. 
'On  Her  Majesty's  service!'  I  read  my  instructions.  I 
don't  lose  a  moment.  I  say  'Go!"  And  with  a  bound 
Uncle  Hugh  would  seize  the  tin  dado,  rush  around  the 
room,  as  he  detached  it  from  the  wall,  fold  it  up  in  sec- 
tions, throw  it  into  one  chest;  the  tables,  the  chairs  folded 
into  each  other,  lamps,  rugs,  books,  instruments,  fire- 
arms, coal-scuttles,  clothes,  boots,  decanters,  silver,  a 
travelling  cook-stove,  everything  a  man  needs  to  go  any- 
where. In  three  minutes  all  had  disappeared,  and 
Uncle  Hugh,  panting,  triumphant,  stood  amid  his  sea 
chests,  overcoat  on,  hat  on,  sticks  and  umbrella  in  hand, 
"Ready!  at  the  Queen's  command,"  would  say  Uncle 
Hugh.  Grown-up  people  who  heard  us  talk  about  this 
experience  laughed,  naturally  enough,  and  declared  that 
Uncle  Hugh  was  "gone  there,"  tapping  their  grown-up 
foreheads.  This  used  to  annoy  me  when  I  was  a  child, 
because  I  was  quite  sure  Hugh  would  one  day  do  this 
thing  he  had  on  his  mind,  and  which  he  had  thus  confided 


HUGH  119 

to  me  and  my  small  brother,  so  we  concluded  we  would 
not  discuss  him  with  the  grown-up  ones  for  the  future. 
We  believed  in  Hugh,  and  we  waited  in  confidence. 

One  day  people  knocked  at  Uncle  Hugh's  door  and 
were  told  that  he  had  gone. 

"Where?"  said  these  callers. 

"To  rescue  Chinese  Gordon,"  said  the  man  at  the  door. 

These  people  smiled  and  went  their  way.  But  it  was 
a  fact.  Not  just  yet  "at  the  Queen's  command,"  but  at 
the  promptings  of  even  a  higher  authority,  Uncle  Hugh 
had  taken  his  instructions.1 

It  was  in  1885  that  Gordon  was  in  such  danger  at 
Khartoum.  Hugh  gathered  together  his  small  resources, 
he  fitted  out  an  expedition  all  by  himself.  He  started 
to  rescue  Gordon.  He  proceeded  across  the  desert.  His 
force  of  natives  turned  on  him,  the  only  white  man. 
They  plotted  to  kill  him.  It  was  his  habit  to  sleep  each 
night  with  dogs  tied  to  his  wrists,  and  a  weapon  in  either 
hand.  One  night  he  heard  his  dogs  growl.  He  awoke, 
and  quite  near  him  some  men  discussed  the  plan  of  mur- 
dering him  and  stealing  his  outfit  and  supplies.  They 
put  the  plan  into  execution  the  next  day.  Hugh  shot  the 
leaders  at  once,  and  marched  the  others  back  to  his  start- 
ing-point, day  after  day,  without  sleeping,  keeping  them 
before  him  at  a  safe  distance.  His  solitary  expedition 
failed,  as  all  grown-up  people  knew  it  would.  But  some- 
where it  has  been  hailed  as  a  success  of  a  kind. 

Gordon  was  killed  at  Khartoum,  as  all  the  world  knows. 
Help  arrived  too  late.  Hugh  suffered  without  complaint 
the  pangs  of  poverty  for  years  after  this  adventure.  No 

1  Uncle  Hugh  Stewart  must  nol  be  confounded  with  Sir  Herbert  Stewart 
who  led  the  actual  relief  expedition.  Nor  with  Sir  Donald  Stewart  who 
accompanied  General  Gordon  and  who  also  lost  his  life  when  despatched  down 
the  river  for  assistance.  These,  however,  were  relatives  of  Hugh. 


120  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

one  knew  of  his  straits.  He  kept  it  from  grown-up  peo- 
ple, and  my  brother  and  I  and  other  small  confidants 
were  leaving  our  childhood  behind  us  in  distant  lands. 
We  never  knew. 

One  day  a  doctor  called  on  my  brother  in  London  and 
told  him  Uncle  Hugh  was  ill.  My  brother  went  to  his 
lodging.  People  at  the  door  were  pale  and  frightened. 
More  doctors  who  were  gathered  there  said  that  the  room 
was  barricaded,  that  Hugh  was  violent,  that  it  was  dan- 
gerous for  any  one  to  enter.  My  brother  called  through 
the  door.  Hugh  knew  his  voice  and  opened.  His  appear- 
ance was  quite  wild  and  gaunt,  untidy,  distraught. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  grown-up  person,"  said  Hugh. 
Then  he  talked  in  his  ancient,  childish  way  sanely 
enough. 

My  brother  got  rid  of  the  disturbed  neighbors,  and  for 
some  days  looked  after  Uncle  Hugh.  One  day  when  he 
knocked  at  the  door  there  was  no  reply.  He  went  in. 
Hugh  was  lying  in  a  hammock  slung  across  the  room — 
this  was  his  present  fancy  in  bedsteads.  He  was  half 
dressed.  He  was  talking  to  himself.  He  had  a  large 
navy  revolver  in  each  hand,  his  other  weapons,  guns  and 
swords,  were  about  him. 

"How  are  you,  Uncle  Hugh?"  said  my  brother. 

Hugh,  looking  steadily  at  him,  said,  "At  the  Queen's 
command,"  and  died. 

He  had  been  called — whither  ?  Who  shall  say  if  this 
was  the  expedition  he  had  vaguely  expected  ?  Who  shall 
say  if  the  messenger  whose  coming  we  had  so  often  seen 
enacted  was  not  the  angel  visitor  who  had  now  knocked 
at  the  door  ?  The  hands,  accustomed  to  weapons,  had 
sought  them  instinctively  at  the  approach  of  danger. 
But  for  this  final  adventure,  dear  Hugh,  you  were  armed 


HUGH  121 

as  few  of  us  shall  be.  No  foe  can  harm  you,  all  others 
will  salute  and  say:  "Pass  on." 

This  is  not  fiction.  Uncle  Hugh  was  a  veritable  Don 
Quixote.  A  child  at  heart,  gentle,  brave,  true,  kind, 
generous,  simple,  romantic,  fanatical  perhaps.  Don 
Quixote  I  always  think  him.  Long,  thin,  with  large 
aquiline  nose,  very  fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  a  trace  of  Irish 
brogue  in  his  voice;  always  laughing  when  with  little 
children.  He  was  a  bachelor,  but  I  am  sure  that  some- 
where there  must  have  been  a  Dulcinea  for  that  chival- 
rous heart.  Perhaps  "at  the  Queen's  command"  had  a 
double  meaning  to  him. 

In  the  Elysian  fields  Uncle  Hugh,  I  know,  wanders 
with  his  asthmatic  dog  and  his  dilapidated  horse;  is 
greeted  by  the  ancient  heroes  as  an  equal,  and  comforts 
small  boys  who  may  be  frightened  as  they  step  from  the 
boat  that  conveys  them  across  the  Styx.  I  am  sure  he 
plays  at  being  a  pirate,  and  perhaps  he  induces  Achilles 
and  other  warriors  to  take  a  part.  Dear  Uncle  Hugh,  I 
salute  you,  "in  the  Queen's  name!" 


XV 
FORWARD  I 

IF  you  had  been  reading  "Captains  Courageous,"  or 
"Allan  Quatermain,"  or  "Treasure  Island,"  and  should 
shortly  come  across  an  old  sea-dog's  old  sea  chest — brass- 
handled,  brass-cornered,  brass-plated,  redolent  of  winds 
and  whales,  and  filling  your  mind's  eye  with  belaying- 
pins  and  pinnaces  and  " sons-of-sea-cooks,"  and  "main- 
sheets,"  and  "abaft  here"  and  "ahoy!  there,"  and  much 
more  mellifluous  maritime  lingo,  what  would  you  say  to 
yourself  before  you  proceeded  to  open  it  ?  You  would 
say,  as  you  pondered  with  the  heavy  key  between  your 
fingers:  "This  chest  harbors  the  dreams  of  my  childhood. 
If  it  is  empty,  well  I  can  still  dream.  But  what  if  it  con- 
tains strange  documents  of  dreams  come  true;  a  map 
telling  me  how  and  where  I  shall  find  the  buried  treasure; 
the  love-letters  of  the  princess  who  dies  for  me  of  unre- 
quited love;  the  fruitless  appeal  of  the  nobles  and  the 
grateful  populace  to  make  me  King  of  the  kingdom  of 
'Neverwas'?  Such  thoughts  would  indeed  give  you 
pause.  But  then  if,  on  turning  the  key  and  opening  the 
chest  and  scanning  logbooks  and  papers,  you  should  be 
confronted  with  the  faded  photograph  of  Uncle  Hugh, 
holding  a  huge,  death-dealing  pistol  in  one  hand  and  a 
most  damnable  dirk  in  the  other,  dressed  in  a  kilt  and 
with  this  exciting  inscription  on  the  back:  'Abyssinia, 
300  miles  up  country,  waiting  for  a  friendly  visit  from 
an  Arab  chief,'  and  dated  1885.  How  then?" 

With   the   mariner's   habit   of  making  records,  uncle 

122 


FORWARD!  123 

Hugh  had  paused  in  his  expedition  toward  Khartoum 
to  take  this  picture.  Here  is  his  logbook  where  is  in- 
scribed: 

May  4,  1852.  Latitude  25-58  North;  longitude  120-3 
East.  Patchugsan,  White  Dog  Island.  Landed  with 
crew  of  Contest  and  Lily  to  rescue  the  crew  of  an  Amer- 
ican merchant  ship  taken  by  Chinese  pirates. 

May  nth.  Had  charge  of  Lily's  pinnace  at  capture 
of  70  piratical  Chinese  junks,  Tymong. 

Here  we  are  surely  in  the  thick  of  adventures — ship- 
wrecked manners  and  pigtailed  pirates.  We  are  dull- 
witted,  indeed,  if  we  do  not  see  ourselves  led  by  all- 
conquering  Uncle  Hugh  rescuing  starving  American  sailors 
on  the  desert  island  at  the  very  moment  when  they  are 
drawing  lots  to  determine  who  shall  be  devoured.  And  do 
not  these  same  rescued  sailors  then  wreak  poetic  justice 
on  the  Chinese  marauders  by  taking  part  in  the  blood- 
curdling conflict  with  the  seventy  piratical  junks  ?  Is  not 
Uncle  Hugh  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  his  fair  hair 
floating  in  the  wind,  battling  from  junk  to  junk  while 
the  almond-eyed  salt-water  thieves  are  hurled  into  the 
sea  delightfully  mangled,  dismembered,  and  decapi- 
tated ? 

Here  is  a  volume,  entitled  "Scenes  and  Studies  of 
Savage  Life/'  by  G.  M.  Sproat — London,  Smith  and 
Elder,  1868.  On  the  fly-leaf  in  Uncle  Hugh's  hand  is 
this  startling  statement: 

I  lived  with  the  Haidar  Indians  for  nearly  two  years, 
dressed  and  painted  in  same  manner  as  that  tribe. 
See  page  186 — a  fight  I  had  with  the  "Ahouahts." 
It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  Indian  war-whoop,  "  Weena  ! 
Weena !"  means  "Forward  !" — same  as  my  family  motto. 


i24  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

The  book  depicts  the  life  and  records  the  history  of 
one  of  the  most  savage  tribes  of  North  America,  the  in- 
habitants of  the  Queen  Charlotte  Islands.  Their  legends 
declare  that  their  forefathers  came  ages  ago  in  great 
canoes  from  the  West,  and  sure  enough  there  is  a  tribe 
of  Hindoos  named  "Haidar"  in  India  to-day.  Hence 
"Haidarabad,"  from  "Haidar,"  lion,  and  "Bad,"  town. 

Having  read  the  book,  you  take  a  long  breath,  and 
wonder  what  on  earth  Hugh  was  doing  for  two  years, 
"dressed  and  painted  in  the  same  manner  as  that  tribe," 
and  you  behold  him  clothed  in  sea-otter  skins  and  draped 
with  a  strangely  patterned  blanket  made  from  the  wool 
of  the  mountain-goat,  woven  upon  a  warp  of  shred  cedar 
bark,  his  face  daubed  with  fat  and  painted  with  pig- 
ments of  vermilion,  blue,  and  black,  bracelets  of  silver 
on  his  arms,  and  copper  rings  upon  his  ankles  and  about 
his  neck;  a  head-dress  consisting  of  a  strange  wooden 
mask,  ornamented  with  mother-of-pearl,  stands  up  from 
his  forehead,  with  a  piece  fitting  over  the  head,  attached 
to  which  are  huge  feathers,  and  supporting  a  long  strip 
of  cloth  about  two  feet  wide  which  hangs  down  to  the 
feet  and  is  covered  with  skins  of  the  ermine.  He  wears, 
too,  ornaments  of  dentalium  and  haliotis  shells,  and  of 
the  orange-colored  bill  of  the  puffin. 

At  the  time  of  Hugh's  residence  among  them  these 
people  were  cannibals  and  head-hunters,  and  the  his- 
torian cheerfully  remarks:  "Your  head  may  be  cut  off 
at  any  moment.  They  think  no  more  of  cutting  off  a 
man's  head  than  of  killing  a  salmon.  They  are  subject 
to  fits  of  demoniacal  possession."  And  he  describes  an 
occasion  when  "It  was  a  clear  moonlight  night.  The 
men  danced  on  the  beach,  many  holding  high  in  one 
hand  a  musket,  in  the  other  several  human  heads." 


UNCLE    HUGH    IN    ALEXANDRIA,    EGYPT 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  Alexandria,  as  shown  in  the  reproduction  at  top 


FORWARD!  125 

They  indulged  in  human  sacrifice,  and,  to  form  hard- 
ened and  fierce  hearts  their  children  were  taught  to 
stick  their  knives  into  the  victim  without  showing  any 
sign  of  pity  or  horror.  At  certain  religious  ceremonies 
flesh  was  bitten  from  the  naked  arm  and  old  people 
torn  limb  from  limb  and  eaten  alive. 

They  worshipped  the  moon.  The  killer  whale  was 
their  evil  spirit,  and  what  with  sorcerers  and  medicine- 
men, and  witch-doctors,  and  a  fine  supply  of  devils  there 
was  no  lack  of  excitement. 

What  in  the  world  was  Uncle  Hugh  doing  for  two 
years,  "dressed  and  painted  in  the  same  manner  as  that 
tribe"  ?  There  it  is  in  his  own  handwriting. 

Please  do  not  tell  me  that  having  attired  himself  ac- 
cording to  the  description  in  the  book  he  sat  on  a  rock 
for  these  two  years  and  twiddled  his  thumbs,  or  that  he 
spent  the  time  in  fishing,  or  that  he  donned  vermilion 
pigments  and  feathered  head-dress  that  he  might  ad- 
mire himself  Narcissus-like  in  the  stream.  Be  it  ob- 
served that  the  war-cry  of  the  Haidars  was  "Weena! 
Weena!"  "Forward!" — the  same  as  Hugh's  family 
motto. 

The  Irish  language  was  originally  Sanscrit.  There 
are  many  ancient  Irish  customs  which  resemble  those  of 
the  Hindoos.  These  Haidars  probably  were  from  India. 
Did  Uncle  Hugh's  romantic  vein  imagine  some  tie  of 
blood  between  himself  and  this  savage  clan  ?  Did  he 
proclaim  himself  "King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands"? 
Did  he,  as  Don  Quixote,  his  prototype,  present  himself 
with  an  island  or  two  and  acclaim  himself  Monarch  of 
the  Kingdom  of  Micomicon  ? 

"The  man  who  would  be  king"  encountered  strange 
happenings.  Did  not  a  certain  Johnson  arise  one  fine 


126  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

morning  and  say  to  his  wife:  "Well,  I  am  going  to  be 
a  king"? 

"Where?"  said  the  astonished  lady. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  am  tired  of  this  sort  of  thing,  and 
I  will  be  a  king!" 

And  did  he  not  sally  forth  and  depart  into  space,  and 
become  a  king  indeed,  King  of  Cocos  Island  in  the  South- 
ern Pacific  ? 

I  am  convinced  that  Uncle  Hugh  became  a  king.  He 
was  the  very  incarnation  of  "once  upon  a  time."  No 
wonder  that  when  he  joined  me  in  my  childhood's  enter- 
prises I  felt  the  spell,  weird  and  mysterious,  which  sur- 
rounded him.  It  was  at  that  time  he  had,  for  reasons, 
abdicated  his  throne,  cast  off  his  feathered  crown,  his 
silver  bracelets,  his  war-paint  and  laid  by  his  arms. 
Why? 

This  chest  full  of  letters  and  memoranda  and  maps 
and  scraps  sayeth  not.  There  is  nothing  but  the  state- 
ment: "For  two  years  dressed  and  painted  in  same 
manner  as  that  tribe,"  written  on  the  fly-leaf  of  the  book. 

Surely,  although  he  went  back  to  civilization  for  a 
while,  it  was  his  intention  to  return  to  his  throne.  Per- 
haps he  was  seeking  for  a  queen  to  share  his  kingdom, 
Quixotic,  of  Micomicon.  Doubtless,  forlorn,  his  sub- 
jects are  waiting  for  him  now,  praying  to  their  gods  of 
the  wind  and  the  storm  for  a  sign. 

What  is  it  in  the  soul  of  man  that  cries:  "Go  forth"  ? 
Whither  we  know  not;  for  what  purpose,  who  can  tell? 
The  race  which  peopled  the  Queen  Charlotte  Islands 
came  in  great  war  canoes  from  the  West.  From  far-away 
Ireland  came  Uncle  Hugh.  "Forward!"  cried  the 
Stewart  clan.  "Weena!  Weena!"  yelled  the  savage 
Haidars,  as,  goaded  by  what  fearful  cataclysm,  what 


FORWARD!  127 

deadly  fear,  what  noble  aspiration,  they,  ages  ago,  dared 
the  vast  ocean  and  ventured  on  the  unknown  seas. 

You  close  your  eyes,  and  in  a  moment  you  are  sailing 
out  of  the  gray  past,  in  a  great  galley  such  as  is  pictured 
on  the  tomb  of  Rameses  the  Great,  with  highly  culti- 
vated adventurers,  away  and  away  eastward  across  the 
Pacific.  You  are  carrying  civilization,  and  the  arts  to 
the  savage  nations  of  the  East,  and  all  the  legendary  lore 
and  science  and  religious  observance,  and  the  customs 
accumulated  through  thousands  and  thousands  of  years 
of  struggle  and  defeat  and  victory.  For  you  are  a  Haidar 
from  Haidarabad  crying:  "Forward!"  as  you  sally  forth 
to  give  the  benighted  savage  his  battle-cry  of  "Weena! 
Weena!"  Or  are  you,  few  in  number,  to  be  wrecked, 
as  traditions  say,  upon  that  distant  shore,  and  are  your 
progeny  to  decay  and  degenerate  into  a  wild  and  brutal 
clan  holding  the  remnants  of  your  wisdom  in  wretched 
tatters  of  distorted  legend  ?  By  what  mysterious  force 
was  Uncle  Hugh  impelled  to  adventure  among  his  de- 
graded and  degenerate  descendants  (for  you  are  con- 
vinced by  now  that  Hugh  is  an  Irish-Scotch-Hindoo,  and 
that  the  Haidars  are  Hindoo-Irish-Americans)  ?  To  re- 
deem them,  "Forward!"  he  cries.  But  they  advance 
not.  "Weena !  Weena  !"  they  yell  and  walk  backward, 
degenerating,  oblivious,  fading  more  and  more  until 
they  become  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  past,  forgetting 
and  forgotten,  vanished  into  the  moonlight  and  the 
dark;  for  does  not  your  goal  in  going  "forward"  depend 
entirely  upon  where  your  eyes  are  set  ? 

Here  you  perceive  a  paragraph  in  Sproat's  volume 
wherein  he  suggests  that  "Quanteat,"  the  great  god 
worshipped  by  the  Haidars  as  only  second  to  the  moon, 
was  a  wondrous  chief  or  "white  man"  of  former  times 


128  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

whom  they  had  credited  with  divine  attributes.  Ha  1  a 
light,  brilliant  and  dazzling,  breaks  in  upon  you.  Hugh 
was  not  only  a  king,  he  was  a  god  I  He  shared  the  heavens 
with  the  sun  and  moon;  the  ocean  with  Hai-de-la-na, 
the  killer  whale.  He  blended  his  war-cry  with  the  voices 
of  the  storm;  why,  then,  did  he  cease  to  reign  ? 

Hugh  was  proud  of  his  descent  from  King  Fergus  I, 
the  Irish  King  of  Scotland  (it  always  tickled  him  that 
the  Scotch  were  originally  Irish),  and  from  King  Robert 
II,  the  progenitors  of  the  Stewart  clan.  Their  motto, 
"  Forward  1"  surging  in  his  blood,  urged  him  forever  to 
strive  up  and  on.  For  him  the  world  was  full  of  great 
adventures;  for  him  the  galleons  and  the  golden  city; 
for  him  Elysium,  Hesperides,  and  the  Island  of  Irish 
myth,  Tir-na-n'oge — Land  of  Eternal  Youth  and  Joy. 
These  are  the  glorious  day-dreams  of  humanity.  But 
the  gods  dream  not,  they  have  no  delusions;  they  are 
wide-eyed;  they  know  all.  Who  would  bear  the  burdens 
of  a  god  ? 

Gazing  at  the  sunset,  you  and  I  who  have  been  pon- 
dering these  matters  place  Uncle  Hugh  with  the  gods 
that  were.  Now  we  comprehend  why  he  descended  from 
his  high  heaven  to  the  earthly  plane.  Perhaps,  like  other 
gods  long  gone,  the  hideous  things  for  which  he  was  held 
responsible  weighed  him  down — the  fearful  prayers  for 
vengeance,  the  outcries  of  despair,  the  few  small  grains 
of  gratitude,  the  fawning  and  the  fear,  the  tears  of  saints 
and  sinners,  the  dreadful  load  of  blame;  forever  sleepless 
and  beholding  all. 

"Ah,  yes !"  we  murmur,  "who  would  be  a  god  ?" 

Perhaps  we  think  that,  having  traced  Uncle  Hugh's 
pedigree  from  a  mariner  to  a  deity,  we  have  reached  the 
top  of  the  impossible.  But  there  is  yet  another  and  super- 


•^   II  YD  Kit  ALLY  . 


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LINEAGE    OF    UNCLE    HUGH 


FORWARD!  129 

lative  adventure,  this  time  into  the  confines  of  purgatory 
itself,  for  behold  the  London  Globe  of  February  7,  1887! 
It  contains  the  account  of  Captain  Stewart's  encounter 
with  a  renowned  ghost  in  the  haunted  ruins  of  a  church 
in  Italy. 

We  have  heard  Uncle  Hugh  relate  this  tragic  tale  with 
a  wild  look  in  his  eye  which  sufficiently  declared  that  he 
was  recounting  an  actual  occurrence,  and  although,  like 
the  doughty  Quixote  himself,  who,  prone  upon  his  back, 
battered,  blood-stained,  trampled  and  dust-laden,  still 
raised  his  cry  of  "Victory!"  Hugh  did  not  acknowledge 
defeat,  yet  he  had  at  last  charged  headlong  the  unknown, 
the  intangible,  the  unreal.  Therefore  awe  was  in  his 
voice  as  he  recalled  his  conflict  and  remembered  that  he 
had  been  overcome  by  powers  inhuman  and  invulnerable. 

It  is  true  that  in  the  newspaper  report  one  can  trace  a 
note  of  polite  incredulity  which  does  not  affect  the  event 
nor  cast  doubt  upon  the  facts.  But  we  who  have  beheld 
Uncle  Hugh  hail  the  world  as  his  oyster,  and  have  re- 
joiced that  the  flesh,  civil  and  savage,  had  for  him  no 
terrors,  are  prepared  to  see  him  tackle  even  the  devil 
himself,  which  indeed  he  appears  to  have  done  on  this 
famous  occasion. 

The  Globe  says: 

A  story  which  has  moved  all  Italy  is  given  by  one  of 
the  most  respectable  and  trustworthy  of  the  journals  of 
Milan,  and  signed  by  Signer  P.  Bettoli,  a  well-known 
name  in  the  Italian  literature  of  the  day. 

On  leaving  S by  the  mountain  gate,  turning  to  the 

right  and  proceeding  for  about  a  couple  of  miles,  you 
may  observe  a  small  collection  of  miserable  hovels  crowned 
by  a  high  church  tower.  These  sordid  hovels  and  this 
imposing  tower  are  known  by  the  name  of  San  Vernanzio. 


i3o  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

In  the  year  1787  there  came  to  San  Vernanzio  a  tribe  of 
gypsies  who,  settling  in  the  place,  built  these  miserable 
huts,  and  lived  for  many  years  in  the  midst  of  the  pov- 
erty and  dirt  to  which  they  are  accustomed.  But  as 
the  tribe  increased  in  numbers  they  became  more  bold, 
until  their  robberies  and  violence  aroused  the  authorities 
and  several  of  their  chiefs  were  taken,  and  one  or  two  of 
them  executed,  while  the  rest  were  imprisoned  or  had  to 
fly  to  avoid  the  law.  Soon  afterward,  just  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  century,  the  remainder  of  the  tribe,  with 
the  women,  girls,  and  boys,  submitted  to  conversion  to 
Catholicism,  on  condition  of  having  secured  to  them  full 
possession  of  the  spot  on  which  their  miserable  hovels 
had  been  erected.  This  was  accorded  on  their  consent- 
ing to  erect  a  church  in  the  enclosed  space  to  which  they 
had  acquired  sole  right  of  possession.  But  as  soon  as  the 
building  was  completed  the  whole  community  disappeared 
as  if  by  magic,  and  nothing  was  ever  heard  of  the  gypsies 
from  that  day.  The  hovels  and  the  little  church  still 
remain,  falling  to  ruin,  it  is  true,  but  still  marking  with 
a  dark  spot  the  wild  and  desolate  place  where  they  stand. 

Rumor  soon  declared  the  spot  to  be  accursed.  Voices 
were  heard  at  dead  of  night,  and  lights  were  seen  moving 
about  among  the  ruins.  One  or  two  persons  who,  more 
courageous  than  the  rest,  have  ventured  to  remain  at 
night  within  respectful  distance  of  the  church,  have  tes- 
tified to  the  unearthly  noises  which  have  issued  from  its 
walls,  and  amid  the  blue  phosphoric  light  thrown  all 
around  have  beheld  strange  figures,  attired  in  costumes 
of  ancient  date,  walking  amid  the  mouldering  remains  of 
the  church  and  the  habitations  which  surround  it.  A 
priest  once  attempted  to  sanctify  the  church  by  worship, 
but  he  was  thrown  with  violence  from  the  place  even 
while  on  his  knees  before  the  high  altar. 

Since  that  time  the  place  has  been  utterly  abandoned, 
and  now,  half  buried  amid  weeds  and  brambles,  it  is 
almost  forgotten,  nothing  remaining  to  view  but  the 
tower. 


FORWARD!  131 

In  the  middle  of  September  last  the  neighboring  town 

of  S was  visited  by  Captain  Stewart.  "The  Signer 

Stewart,"  says  Bettoli,  "is  a  man  of  about  forty  years  of 
age,  not  strictly  handsome  but  of  noble  and  serious  as- 
pect, and  of  a  powerful  and  energetic  temperament.  He 
heard  of  the  mysterious  apparition  at  San  Vernanzio,  and 
at  once  determined  to  pass  a  night  among  the  ruins. 
For  this  purpose  he  visited  the  place  during  the  day  and 
carefully  examined  every  nook  and  corner  of  each  of  the 
hovels  which  surround  the  church.  He  chose  for  his 
night's  lodging  the  most  ruinous  of  all,  the  one  whose 
mouldering  wall  still  leans  against  the  porch.  He  re- 
paired alone  to  the  place,  carrying  the  camp  bedstead 
which  accompanies  him  on  his  travels,  and,  armed  with 
two  six-chambered  revolvers,  one  in  each  hand,  he  re- 
tired to  rest. 

"And  now,"  says  Signor  Bettoli,  "let  me  tell  the  rest 
of  the  story  as  I  had  it  from  Captain  Stewart's  own  lips: 

"'I  had  been  waiting  for  the  hour  of  midnight.  The 
silence  was  intense,  and,  worn  out  with  fatigue,  I  was  fast 
sinking  into  slumber  when  I  was  suddenly  aroused  by  a 
terrible  noise  which  seemed  to  proceed  from  below  the 
earth,  loud  and  rumbling  like  distant  thunder,  or,  rather, 
the  passage  of  artillery  along  a  badly  paved  street.  At 
the  same  moment,  and  while  the  threatening  sound  still 
continued,  the  darkness  was  suddenly  dispersed  by  a  dim 
phosphoric  light,  pale  and  yet  bright  and  steady,  like  the 
lighting  of  a  match  against  the  wall,  and  in  the  midst  of 
this  atmosphere  of  pallid  vapory  hue  there  appeared  a 
human  form,  undefined  and  indistinct  enough  to  leave 
me  in  doubt  as  to  the  semblance  whether  of  man  or 
woman.  It  might  have  been  that  of  a  nun  or  abbess, 
but  as  I  gazed  I  fancied  it  to  be  rather  that  of  a  poet  or 
clerk  of  Dante's  time,  for  the  bandelets  and  head-gear 
of  that  period  were  strikingly  apparent.  I  rose  up  on  the 
bed  and  gazed  fixedly  upon  my  strange  visitor. 

"'"Who  are  you?"  I  cried,  "and  what  do  you  want 
with  me?'* 


132  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"'No  answer  was  returned,  and  amid  the  subterranean 
noise  and  phosphorescent  light  the  figure  still  continued 
to  advance^ 

"'"Take  care!"  cried  I  again.  "I  warn  you  that  if 
you  advance  a  step  nearer  I  will  blow  your  brains  out.** 

"'But  my  warning  was  of  no  avail.  The  shadow  still 
approached.  Then,  raising  my  right  arm  I  fired  one  after 
another  the  six  bullets  from  my  first  revolver.  For  a 
moment  I  was  so  blinded  by  the  smoke  that  I  lost  sight 
of  everything.  When  the  smoke  had  disappeared  I  still 
beheld  in  the  pale-blue  light  the  figure  still  advancing 
toward  me  until  it  stood  close  to  the  foot  of  my  bed. 

"A  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  my  forehead.  I  lost 
consciousness  and  fell  backward,  fainting,  on  my  pillow.*  *' 

The  Globe  then  remarks  T 

In  spite  of  the  disbelief  we  cold-blooded  Northerners 
are  bound  to  maintain  concerning  the  exactness  of  Signer 
Bettoli's  account,  we  cannot  help  feeling  somewhat  moved 
by  the  honored  name  of  the  hero  of  the  adventure,  given 
as  it  is  in  full  and  without  disguise  by  the  narrator. 

If  you  are  in  search  of  excitement,  you  have  it  here. 
By  now,  with  your  head  full  of  cannibals,  murderers,  gold 
mines,  sorcerers,  men  eaten  alive,  dreadful  gods,  killer 
whales,  head-hunters,  Chinese  pirates,  wrecked  merchant- 
men, White  Dog  Island,  the  imminent  deadly  breach  at 
Canton,  the  Abyssinian  desert,  and  goblins  from  the  other 
world,  it  seems  to  me  that  your  frame  of  mind  will  be 
about  as  blissful  as  is  possible  for  mortal  man  upon  this 
orb. 

As  for  me,  I  sat  before  this  sea  chest  of  Uncle  Hugh, 
with  the  photograph  of  him  before  me,  and  with  the  docu- 
mentary evidence  of  his  astonishing  accomplishments  on 
either  hand,  and  was  transported  at  will  into  scenes  of 


FORWARD!  133 

the  most  glorious  carnage.  Now  was  I  amid  a  terrific 
battle  with  Chinese  junks,  the  hideous  pirates  falling  over- 
board with  yells  agreeably  ghastly  and  pleasantly  appal- 
ling; now  mad  Arabs  or  frantic  Dervishes  overwhelmed 
me,  numberless  as  the  sands  of  the  desert,  only  to  be  scat- 
tered by  adorable  Hugh  as  though  they  were  feathers 
before  the  blast;  now  was  I  bound  to  a  stake  on  White 
Dog  Island,  to  be  instantly  burned  alive  by  the  pirate 
hordes,  when  from  the  sky  came  Uncle  Hugh,  and,  with 
a  blow,  a  thousand  pigtailed  villains  bit  the  dust.  In  a 
wink  I  am  about  to  be  eaten  by  the  Haidar  savages,  who 
chant  the  death-song  while  they  bite  pieces  out  of  each 
other  to  sharpen  their  appetites,  when,  hark !  Hugh's  war- 
cry,  "Forward  I"  rings  in  my  ear,  and  after  a  sanguinary 
conflict  I  am  saved  for  further  adventures.  Now  are  we 
painted  vermilion,  tattooed,  decked  in  head-dresses  of 
feathers,  tracking  prodigious  animals  through  horrid 
jungles,  harpooning  whales,  diving  for  pearls,  discover- 
ing gold,  wooing  copper-colored  maidens  by  the  light  of 
the  moon,  and  finally  here  we  are,  with  "eyes  starting 
from  their  spheres,"  and  each  particular  hair  standing  on 
end,  in  battle — furious,  superhuman,  and  incredible — 
with  the  very  spirits  of  darkness,  firing  bullets  through 
ghostly  gallows-birds  who,  emitting  fires  infernal  and  ac- 
cursed, pay  no  heed  but  rob  us  of  our  reason. 

Truly,  Aladdin's  carpet  was  nothing  to  this !  The 
fisherman's  jar  from  which  sprang  the  jinn  surely  could 
not  hold  a  candle  to  Hugh's  sea  chest,  exhaling  visions 
innumerable,  awesome,  and  ecstatic.  "Forward!"  we 
cry,  but  we  can  go  no  farther.  Hugh's  rallying  call  is 
vain.  Here  is  a  barrier  he  may  not  pass.  In  San  Ver- 
nanzio,  dark,  wild,  and  desolate,  he  has  to  pause,  for  the 
dreadful  demons  mock  his  weapons  and  laugh  his  battle- 


134  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

cry  to  scorn.  He  has  tilted  at  a  windmill.  He  has  been 
vanquished  by  the  giant  Pandafallando,  and  lies  upon  his 
back  crying  "Victory!  Dulcinea  is  the  loveliest  lady  in 
the  world." 

DON  QUIXOTE 

Romance  is  dead,  and  knights  have  had  their  day, 

Old  Time  now  dances  to  a  soberer  tune, 

No  longer  Strephon  worships  Phyllis's  shoon, 

The  very  gods  have  fled  this  mortal  fray; 

Yet  one  heart  owns  fair  Dulcinea's  sway, 

And  bears  her  banner,  praying  as  a  boon 

That  he  may  dare  the  mountains  of  the  moon, 

The  filched  stars  before  her  feet  to  lay. 

Here  Don  Quixote  holds  his  forehead  high, 

His  lance  in  rest,  his  oriflamme  unfurl'd, 

Tilting  at  windmills  or  'gainst  giants  hurl'd, 

Honor  and  Truth  and  Love  his  battle-cry, 

Demanding  only  of  a  laughing  world 

Gently  to  live  and  with  brave  heart  to  die. 

Wisest  of  madmen,  maddest  of  the  wise ! 

We  would  adventure  where  thy  fancies  lead ; 

Where  knightly  thought  quickens  to  knightly  deed, 

Where  thy  defeat  shames  meaner  victories. 

Did  all  men  view  life's  pageant  through  thine  eyes, 

Wield  righteous  sword  when  grief  and  weakness  plead, 

Then  were  this  world  from  all  enchanters  freed, 

All  mortals  listed  in  thy  high  emprise. 

Quixotic  we  would  be — to  still  declare 

Our  cot  a  castle,  and  our  lass  a  queen; 

Upright,  unconquered,  unafraid,  serene; 

Finding  God's  poorest  creatures  brave  and  fair; 

Shedding  a  glory  over  all  things  mean. 

If  this  be  folly,  folly  be  our  share. 


XVI 
"RUFFIAN  DICK" 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  lived  a  King  who  had  a  beauti- 
ful daughter.  This  princess  preferred  the  love  of  a  poor 
knight  to  the  throne  of  her  father,  so  she  followed  him 
in  the  guise  of  a  page.  At  this  the  King  proclaimed  her 
an  outcast  from  his  house  and  heart.  After  many  ad- 
ventures the  princess  and  the  knight  returned  and  craved 
forgiveness  of  the  King,  who  pardoned  them,  and  they 
were  married  and  lived  happy  ever  after. 

This  is,  of  course,  the  ordinary,  well  regulated  fairy- 
tale, and  this,  equally  of  course,  is  just  what  you  would 
expect  to  have  happened  to  some  forebear  of  Uncle  Hugh. 
Surely  enough  it  is  precisely  what  did  happen.  The 
great  King  in  this  case  was  Tippoo  Sahib,  Sultan  of  My- 
sore in  India,  and  his  daughter,  about  the  year  1780,  ran 
away  with  an  Irish  officer  named  Newburg.  She  was 
disowned  by  her  father,  and  lost  caste  for  having  loved 
a  European.  But  she  and  her  lover  returned  and  begged 
pardon  of  the  Sultan.  He  not  only  forgave  them  their 
trespass,  but  bestowed  a  large  dowry  upon  the  princess, 
who  was  married  to  the  poor  soldier  and  returned  with 
him  to  Ireland.  This  was  the  great-great-grandmother 
of  Uncle  Hugh,  whose  name  was  Hugh  Robert  Newburg 
Stewart. 

The  Sultan  of  Mysore  was  the  son  of  Haidar  AH  Khan 
Badahur,  Monarch  of  the  Haidar  Indians.  So  now  you 
see  why  Hugh  was  impelled  to  adventure  among  the 
Haidars  of  Queen  Charlotte  Islands. 

135 


136  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Tippoo  Sahib  was  slain  in  battle  at  his  capital,  Se- 
ringapatam,  in  1799.  His  saddle  and  the  trappings  of 
his  horse  are  now  exhibited  in  Windsor  Castle.  Other 
articles  from  his  palace  are  at  Fife  House,  Whitehall, 
London.  His  daughter  died  the  wife  of  an  Irish  gentle- 
man, leaving  a  family  of  nine  children.  Thus  we  have 
Hugh  an  Irish-Scotch-Hindoo,  as  already  suspected. 

A  man  may  be  known  by  the  company  he  keeps,  and 
he  will  admire  in  others  those  qualities  which  he  would 
foster  in  himself.  Thus  Uncle  Hugh's  devotion  to 
"Chinese  Gordon"  leads  one,  naturally,  to  comprehend 
his  affection  for  Sir  Richard  Burton,  an  associate  and 
contemporary  of  Gordon,  who  called  himself  an  Eng- 
lish-Irish-Scotch-Arab,  having,  mixed  with  the  English 
blood  in  his  veins,  that  of  the  Bourbon  Louis  XIV,  of 
Rob  Roy  McGregor,  and  of  the  Burton  tribe  of  gypsies. 

Behold !  a  set  of  pictures  of  Burton  with  his  "brow  of 
a  god  and  his  jaw  of  a  devil,"  which  used  to  hang  in 
Uncle  Hugh's  room  with  a  strange  inscription  framed 
therein: 

Sir  Richard  Burton,  my  old  friend  and  companion. 
The  only  man  in  the  world  that  I  believed  in. 

If  one  has  read  the  life  of  Richard  Burton,  written 
by  his  wife,  one  can  well  understand  that  the  strong, 
resolute,  mystic,  religious,  adventurous,  self-reliant,  po- 
etic character  would  inspire  a  man  like  Uncle  Hugh 
with  admiration  and  confidence.  Yet  the  inscription 
is  a  sad  commentary  on  Uncle  Hugh's  experience  of 
human  nature.  That  he  should  take  the  trouble  to 
blazon  such  a  statement  in  black  and  white  makes  one 
wonder  through  what  disillusionment  he  had  passed. 


"RUFFIAN  DICK"  137 

Burton's  strain  of  Romany  accounted  for  his  vagabond 
tendencies,  intolerant  of  all  convention  or  restraint, 
which  procured  him  the  sobriquet  of  "Ruffian  Dick" 
at  Oxford  and  in  his  early  days  in  India.  Before  middle 
age  he  had,  as  Lord  Derby  said,  "compressed  into  his 
life  more  of  study,  more  of  hardship,  and  more  of  suc- 
cessful enterprise  and  adventure  than  would  have  suf- 
ficed to  fill  up  the  existence  of  half  a  dozen  ordinary 
men." 

This  was  the  man  Hugh  had  chosen  for  his  "friend 
and  companion,"  whose  creed  was,  "A  man  should  seek 
Honor,  not  honors,"  and  whose  motto  ran,  "Omne  solum 
forti  patria" —  "every  region  is  a  strong  man's  home." 

Lady  Burton  writes:  "Richard's  idea  was  that  every 
man  by  doing  all  the  good  he  could  in  this  life,  always 
working  for  others,  for  the  human  race,  always  acting 
'excelsior,'  should  leave  a  track  of  light  behind  him  on 
this  world  as  he  passes  through." 

Lady  Burton  quotes  these  tributes: 

A  very  extraordinary  man  who  toiled  every  hour  and 
minute  for  forty  and  a  half  years,  and  distinguished 
himself  in  every  possible  way.  He  has  done  more  than 
any  other  six  men  in  her  Majesty's  dominions  and  is 
one  of  the  best,  noblest  and  truest  that  breathes.  .  .  . 
His  languages,  knowledge  and  experience  upon  every 
subject,  or  any  single  act  of  his  life,  would  have  raised 
any  other  man  to  the  top  of  the  ladder  of  honor  and 
fortune.  .  .  . 

Self-reliant,  self-sustained,  seeking  no  support  from 
heaven  or  earth,  substituting  self-will  for  faith  and 
strenuous  effort  for  divine  assistance,  endowed  by  na- 
ture with  a  frame  of  iron  and  muscles  of  steel,  he  was  an 
athlete  who  might  have  figured  in  the  arena  in  Greek 
or  Roman  times.  . 


138  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Though  standing  nearly  six  feet  high,  he  did  not  look 
a  tall  man,  his  broad  shoulders,  deep  chest,  and  splen- 
didly developed  limbs  deceiving  the  eye  as  to  his  real 
height.  While  the  best  of  ordinary  men  never  aspire 
to  know  more  than  something  of  everything  or  every- 
thing of  something,  he  might,  without  exaggeration,  be 
said  to  know  everything  of  everything. 

His  pilgrimage  to  Mecca  in  1853,  disguised,  as  one 
may  here  observe,  as  an  Indian  Pathan,  made  him 
famous —  "with  hair  falling  upon  his  shoulders,  a  long 
beard,  face  and  hands,  arms  and  feet  stained  with  a 
thin  coat  of  henna,  behold  Mirza  Abdullah  of  Bushiri. 
A  blunder,  a  hasty  action,  a  misjudged  word,  a  prayer, 
a  bow  not  strictly  the  right  shibboleth,  and  my  bones 
would  have  whitened  the  desert  sand." 

Burton's  great  distinguishing  feature  was  his  courage. 
No  braver  man  than  "Ruffian  Dick"  ever  lived.  His 
daring  was  of  that  romantic  order  which  revels  in  danger 
for  danger's  sake.  No  crisis,  however  appalling,  could 
shake  his  splendid  nerve.  He  was  as  cool  when  his  life 
hung  on  a  hair's  breadth  as  when  he  sat  smoking  in  his 
own  snuggery. 

He  was  the  first  Englishman  to  enter  Mecca;  the 
first  to  explore  Somaliland;  the  first  to  discover  the 
great  lakes  of  Central  Africa,  anticipating  Stanley. 

His  journey  to  Harrar,  the  Somali  capital,  was  even 
more  hazardous  than  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca.  Burton 
vanished  into  the  desert,  and  was  not  heard  from  for 
four  months.  When  he  reappeared  he  had  not  only 
been  to  Harrar  but  had  talked  with  the  King,  stayed 
ten  days  there  in  deadly  peril  and  ridden  back  across 
the  desert,  almost  without  food  and  water,  running  the 
gantlet  of  the  Somali  spears  all  the  way.  Undeterred 
by  this  experience,  he  set  out  again  but  was  checked 
by  a  skirmish  with  the  tribes  in  which  one  of  his  young 


"RUFFIAN  DICK"  139 

officers  was  killed;  Captain  Speke  was  wounded  in 
eleven  places  and  Burton  himself,  having  fought  his 
way  single-handed,  his  only  weapon  a  sabre,  through 
150  savages,  had  a  javelin  thrust  through  his  jaws. 

He  was,  as  has  been  well  said,  an  Elizabethan  born 
out  of  his  time.  His  was  the  spirit  of  Drake  and  Raleigh 
and  of  Hawkins.  He  was  poet,  scholar,  soldier;  the 
best  swordsman,  the  best  shot,  the  best  horseman.  He 
spoke  twenty-nine  languages,  not  to  mention  his  study 
of  the  speech  of  monkeys.  He  made  the  best  transla- 
tion of  the  "Arabian  Nights."  He  published  eighty 
works  of  travel.  Athlete,  philosopher,  historian,  diplo- 
mat, mystic — the  Admirable  Crichton  of  his  time. 

Wrote  Theophile  Gautier: 

There  is  a  reason  for  the  fantasy  of  nature  which 
causes  an  Arab  to  be  born  in  Paris,  or  a  Greek  in  Au- 
vergne.  The  mysterious  voice  of  blood  which  is  silent 
for  generations,  or  only  utters  a  confused  murmur, 
speaks  at  rare  intervals  a  more  intelligible  language. 
In  the  general  confusion  race  claims  its  own,  and  some 
forgotten  ancestor  asserts  his  rights.  Who  knows  what 
alien  drops  are  mingled  with  our  blood  ?  The  great 
migrations  from  the  table-lands  of  India,  the  descents 
of  the  Northern  races,  the  Roman  and  Arab  invasions 
have  all  left  their  marks.  Instincts  which  seem  bizarre 
spring  from  these  confused  recollections,  these  hints  of 
distant  country.  The  vague  desire  of  primitive  father- 
land moves  such  minds  as  retain  the  more  vivid  mem- 
ories of  the  past.  Hence,  the  wild  unrest  that  wakens 
in  certain  spirits  the  need  of  flight,  such  as  the  cranes 
and  the  swallows  feel  when  kept  in  bondage;  the  im- 
pulses that  make  man  leave  his  luxurious  life  to  bury 
himself  in  the  steppes,  the  desert,  the  pampas,  the 
Sahara.  He  goes  to  seek  his  brothers.  It  would  be 
easy  to  point  out  the  intellectual  fatherland  of  our  great- 
est minds.  Lamartine,  De  Musset,  and  De  Vigny  are 


140  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

English;  De  Lacroix  is  an  Anglo-Indian,  Victor  Hugo 
a  Spaniard,  Ingres  belongs  to  the  Italy  of  Florence  and 
Rome. 

Burton  as  a  little  child  would  lie  on  his  back  in  the 
broiling  sun  and  cry:  "How  I  love  a  bright,  burning 
sun!"  "Nature  speaking  in  early  years,"  as  he  remarks. 

It  would  seem  that  Uncle  Hugh's  inclination  toward 
these  heroic  spirits  had  some  root  in  the  past.  Look  at 
Burton's  picture,  and  at  the  inscription  beneath  it  and 
ponder.  Burton  was  Hugh's  senior  by  ten  years.  Per- 
haps it  was  on  his  return  from  Mecca  that  Hugh  first 
encountered  him.  Hugh  would  then  have  been  about 
twenty-two.  This  is  the  age  when  one  must  needs  have 
a  hero  to  worship.  It  was  Burton's  boast  that  he  was 
ever  ready  to  go  anywhere  at  ten  minutes'  notice.  Here 
we  see  the  source  of  Uncle  Hugh's  "ready  at  the  Queen's 
command."  Burton's  mysticism,  too,  is  reflected  in 
Hugh's  encounter  with  the  apparitions  in  Italy. 

Burton  was  a  great  mesmerist  and  would  frequently 
mesmerize  Lady  Burton  that  she  might  foretell  the  re- 
sult of  his  journeys.  She  became  so  subject  to  his  power 
that  he  could  send  her  to  sleep  from  a  great  distance. 
Also  he  appeared  to  her  in  the  spirit  many  hours  after 
he  had  sailed  away  from  England,  before  their  mar- 
riage. 

Says  Lady  Burton: 

At  2.00  A.  M.;  the  door  opened  and  he  came  into  my 
room.  A  current  of  warm  air  came  toward  my  bed. 
He  said:  "Good-by,  my  poor  child.  My  time  is  up  and 
I  have  gone,  but  do  not  grieve,  I  shall  be  back  in  less 
than  three  years,  and  I  am  your  destiny.  Good-by." 
He  held  up  a  letter,  looked  long  at  me  with  those  gypsy 
eyes  and  went  out,  shutting  the  door. 


"RUFFIAN  DICK"  141 

Lady  Burton  arose  and  rushed  into  the  hall,  but  no 
one  was  visible.  A  letter  came  by  post  the  next  morn- 
ing at  eight  o'clock.  Burton  had  left  London  at  six  o'clock 
on  the  previous  evening,  eight  hours  before  Lady  Burton 
saw  him  in  the  night. 

Burton  also  could  read  hands  at  a  glance.  "With 
many,"  says  Lady  Burton,  "he  would  drop  the  hand 
at  once  and  turn  away,  nor  would  anything  induce  him 
to  speak  a  word  about  it." 

Lady  Burton's  marriage  to  Burton  was  foretold  by  a 
gypsy  woman  of  the  Burton  tribe  long  before  she  met 
her  husband.  "You  will  bear  the  same  name  as  our 
tribe,  and  be  right  proud  of  it.  You  will  be  as  we  are 
but  far  greater  than  we."  Some  time  after  she  came 
out  of  the  convent,  where  she  was  at  school,  and  en- 
countered Burton  who  stood  still,  startled.  She  felt  a 
strange  agitation,  and  said  to  her  companion  as  she 
passed  on  without  greeting:  "That  man  will  marry  me." 

After  Lady  Burton's  death  she  appeared  in  broad 
daylight  to  Justin  McCarthy  and  his  daughter  as  they 
walked  in  Brighton.  "There  goes  Lady  Burton,"  said 
Miss  McCarthy,  as  she  passed  them. 

Lady  Burton  was  at  the  moment  dead  in  London. 

Both  Gordon  and  Burton  loved  children.  When 
visiting  friends,  Burton  was  frequently  discovered  play- 
ing on  the  floor  with  the  children  of  the  house.  Gordon 
founded  a  home  for  ragged  boys,  and  during  his  six  years' 
work  as  Commanding  Royal  Engineer  at  Gravesend  he 
cared  for  hundreds  of  poor  urchins  who  had  no  other 
friend.  Chalked  up  on  doors  and  walls  one  might  read 
in  those  days  scrawled  in  childish,  uneven  letters,  "God 
bless  the  Kernel."  "The  Kernel"  was  Gordon,  who  con- 
ducted during  his  spare  hours  a  school  for  ragged  boys. 


i42  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

He  called  them  his  "kings,"  and  taught  these  mud-larks 
to  be  "gentle"  men. 

This  was  the  Gordon  who  went  on  a  mission  of  peace 
from  the  Khedive  of  Egypt  to  the  King  of  Abyssinia, 
the  most  cruel  and  savage  of  cruel  and  savage  kings, 
and  who  treated  Gordon  with  the  greatest  insolence. 

"Do  you  know  that  I  could  kill  you?"  he  asked, 
glaring  at  Gordon  like  a  tiger. 

"I  am  quite  ready  to  die,"  replied  Gordon.  "In 
killing  me  you  will  only  confer  a  favor  by  opening  a 
door  I  must  not  open  for  myself." 

"Then  my  power  has  no  terrors  for  you  ?"  said  the 
King. 

"None  whatever,"  replied  Gordon. 

And  the  King  stood  powerless  before  the  man  who 
knew  no  fear. 

On  leaving  Egypt,  Gordon  said  of  his  successor:  "He 
must  have  my  iron  constitution,  for  Khartoum  is  too 
much  for  any  one  who  has  not.  Then  he  must  have  my 
contempt  for  money,  otherwise  the  people  will  never 
believe  in  his  sincerity.  Lastly,  he  must  have  my  con- 
tempt for  death." 

Gordon  led  his  troops  in  China,  himself  unarmed  save 
for  a  little  cane  which  he  always  carried,  and  which  the 
soldiers  of  his  "ever  victorious  army"  called  his  "magic 
wand,"  for  he  seemed  to  bear  a  charmed  life.  He  hated 
the  "plausibilities"  of  religion,  but  for  his  ragged  urchin 
"kings"  he  said:  "I  pray  for  each  one  of  them  day  by 
day,"  and  his  Bible  accompanied  him  on  all  campaigns. 

Burton's  inseparable  companion  was  a  volume  wherein 
was  bound  in  one  cover  the  works  of  Shakespeare,  Euclid, 
and  the  Bible.  This  never  left  him  in  his  wild  adven- 
tures. 


"RUFFIAN  DICK"  143 

When  his  restless  spirit  sent  him  to  Africa  just  previous 
to  his  marriage,  he  left  some  verses  to  fame  with  Lady 
Burton: 

"Fame  pointed  to  a  grisly  shore 
Where  all  breathes  death — Earth,  sea,  and  air. 
Her  glorious  accents  sound  once  more, 
'Go  meet  me  there  !* 

"Mine  ear  will  hear  no  other  word, 
No  other  thought  my  heart  will  know. 
Is  this  a  sin  ?    Oh,  pardon,  Lord, 
Thou  mad'st  me  so." 

Burton  was  a  great  joker  and  loved  to  horrify  staid 
people  with  ghastly  stories  of  eating  fat  cabin  boys  at 
sea,  and  other  Munchausen  tales  blood-curdling  and 
confounding  to  Mrs.  Grundy  and  her  tribe.  He  loved 
to  paint  himself  a  very  black  and  frightful  devil,  and 
to  enjoy  the  amazed  horror  of  his  listeners.  All  these 
traits  must  have  appealed  strongly  to  Uncle  Hugh, 
making  him  a  very  willing  slave  to  that  affection  we 
see  indicated  in  this  inscription  under  the  portrait  of 
his  "old  friend  and  companion."  What  Uncle  Hugh 
was  to  me  as  a  little  child  that  was  Sir  Richard  Burton 
to  Uncle  Hugh  as  a  young  sailorman  of  twenty-two. 
What  Gordon  must  have  been  to  his  ragamuffins,  that 
was  Uncle  Hugh  to  my  childhood's  fancy. 

Quoth  the  teller  of  tales:  "Once  upon  a  time  there 
lived  a  King." 

Said  Chinese  Gordon  to  his  mud-larks:  "It  is  in  all 
men  to  be  kingly." 

Said  "Ruffian  Dick":  "Man  should  seek  Honor,  not 
honors." 

Spake  Hugh:   "These  men  were  my  friends!" 


PART  III 

MY  FATHER 


XVII 
ISHERWOOD 

GHOSTLY  experiences  are  apt  to  be  treated  with  scorn. 
Sir  Oliver  Lodge,  the  great  scientist,  is  at  this  moment 
being  roundly  denounced  for  asserting  that  he  has  ac- 
quired actual  personal  proof  of  a  life  after  death.  Yet, 
if  one  considers  wireless  telegraphy  and  established  te- 
lepathy, it  may  not  seem  impossible  that  one  mind,  con- 
centrated on  another  in  a  moment  of  extreme  agony, 
may  impress  that  other  mind,  properly  attuned,  to  such 
an  extent  that  an  image  may  be  projected  so  clearly  as 
to  seem  to  be  visible  to  the  organs  of  sight. 

Mr.  Edwin  Booth  in  his  letters  declared  that  two 
nights  before  Mrs.  Booth's  death  in  1863,  she  came  to 
him  in  New  York,  she  being  at  the  time  in  Dorchester, 
Massachusetts.  He  heard  her  distinctly  say,  "Come  to 
me,  my  darling,  I  am  almost  frozen,"  and  that,  when 
he  was  speeding  to  her  on  the  train,  not  dreaming  that 
she  was  seriously  ill,  each  time  he  looked  from  the  car 
window  he  saw  Mrs.  Booth  dead,  with  a  white  cloth  tied 
around  her  head  and  chin.  He  arrived  in  Dorchester  to 
find  her  in  her  coffin. 

When  I  was  at  school,  a  boy  in  the  next  bed  to  me 
awoke  in  the  night  weeping,  and  said  he  had  dreamed  that 
his  father  was  dead.  A  telegram  arrived  the  next  morn- 
ing to  say  that  his  father  had  died  during  the  night. 

Hundreds  of  instances  have  been  corroborated  where 
captains  of  vessels  have  received  communications,  either 

147 


i48  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

verbal  or  by  the  appearance  of  a  figure,  directing  them 
toward  other  vessels  in  distress,  or  warning  them  of  dan- 
ger. These  experiences  are  classed  with  tales  of  the  sea- 
serpent,  which  may  yet  be  captured  and  confound  un- 
believers. 

A  relative  of  my  mother,  Admiral  Sir  Houston  Stewart, 
being  a  sailor,  believed  firmly  in  warnings  of  this  nature, 
and  although  there  is  no  evidence  to  that  effect,  he  was 
always  convinced  that  not  chance  alone  controlled  his 
inclination  and  handled  his  helm  on  a  certain  occasion. 

It  was  the  custom  in  "the  palmy  days"  for  actors  to 
band  together  and  take  theatres  for  the  summer,  and  to 
play  a  season  of  repertoire,  on  the  order  of  our  present 
stock  companies.  During  the  year  1857,  my  father,  John 
Raymond,  J.  H.  Stoddart,  and  some  others  occupied  a 
theatre  in  Halifax,  Nova  Scotia.  This  was  christened 
Sothern's  Lyceum. 

The  season  of  1857  was  not  crowned  with  success,  and 
although  the  players  made  many  friends  they  made  no 
money;  in  fact,  they  met  with  financial  disaster.  Many 
desperate  expedients  were  undertaken  to  arouse  the  apa- 
thetic public.  I  have  a  programme  of  an  occasion  pro- 
jected by  my  father,  wherein,  with  cheerful  omnipotence, 
he  undertook  to  deliver  "Three  lectures  on  the  Drama, 
beginning  with  the  Dawn  of  Civilization,  and  embracing 
the  history  of  the  theatres  of  India,  China,  Japan,  France, 
Germany,  England,  tracing  the  growth  of  the  play  in- 
stinct throughout  the  Middle  Ages  to  the  present  time. 
With  a  description  of  folk-lore,  mystery-plays,  the  origin 
of  Punch  and  Judy,  and  a  dissertation  on  the  marionettes 
of  Italy."  No  seats  were  sold  for  these  three  entertain- 
ments, the  inhabitants  of  Halifax  remaining  unmoved; 
so  a  new  bill  was  printed,  declaring  that  "The  demand  for 


SOTHERN'S  LYCEUM. 


if*' 


HALIFAX,   N.  S. 


Proprietor  itu.t   ^|«n 


\vt-lni. 


mm.  liit  at  rl*lii  prrr 
!%.  H.— I'olliT   arr  to 
ordrr. 


FUN!  FUN!  FUN!! 

GREAT    ATTBACTION!!! 

RAYMOND'S  BENEFIT, 

THREE   NEW  PIECES, 

Comedy,  Vaudeville,  and  Farce. 

,  ''WHACK. 

IV  Hum  MI.UMM.U«.  (Hiurlub*).  wlU  upprar  for  IU.1  nlthc  only, 

MONDAY  EVLMNG,  Al'CUST  17,  1857, 

First  tituc  ui  thi*  city  i>f  Bucks!  >:;cV  Comedy,  .in  thr»-.-  acb-,  eutiUf!, 

Married  Life! 


UK  LT.Xt 
UK  TOINI 
MR.  DUMA 


K-  I-Vl.VF.-rKK 
UK  STIM4MUT 

VL«MR<TAVKI; 
UK  HKVNUUB 
111  i  .V  TAYtiK 
•JK.  FI.-'ifK 
d4S  MllUi.UX 
VK  KAVMHNP 


S  0  $  C, 

••  IT  LOIB  US  18  i  MtUri." 
BY  THE  INL>I.\N  N1OHTINOALE. 

B  Alt  L  A  B, 

BY  MISS  CUSHNIE. 


Raymond  Worried 
by  Sothern. 

In  which  Ui,-)r  will  »n,K-  Hi.,  o'lrl-ralod  Durtl  from 

"IL  PURITANI,"  ] 

From  the  collection  of  Robert  Could  Shaw,  Boston 


SOTHERN'S 

TC1U 

HALIFAX.  N.  S. 


NOTICE. 

Tho  Dramatic  Season  positively  wni-ludes 
on  TrKsovY,  the  '25th  inst. 


iic  IHC  »«  right  |trrt  !-.•!> 

.  B.—  Pallet  arc  la  f  ott-l»nl  attrn4anrr  la  pmrrre  ; 


WEDHESDAY  EVENING,  AUGUST  Id. 


LAST  NIGHT  BUT  FOUR 


BENEFIT    OF 

MRS.  SOTHERN. 

BeU(  uodf  r  Uir  UB*e41>lr  PiUroaifC  ol 

1DNUUL  Sffi  BOISTON  STCT1RT.  L  C.  B. 


TO  CONQUER! 


AX1.KS  »AH.O» 

AWX:A>TI  K 

.Jl  —  ^  HAKLOW 

Tomr 


/"rom  //t<r  collection  oj  Robert  Gould  Sha'.c,  Boston 


August  17,  1857  August  19,  1857 

PROGRAMMES    OF    SOTHERN's    LYCEUM 


ISHERWOOD  149 

seats  had  caused  so  much  confusion  that  it  had  been  de- 
termined to  condense  the  material  of  the  three  lectures 
into  one,  an  arrangement  which,  it  was  hoped,  would 
meet  with  the  approval  of  the  hundreds  of  persons  eager 
to  attend,"  and  it  was  urged  that  "Mr.  Sothern's  unex- 
pected call  to  New  York  to  fulfil  an  important  engage- 
ment would  make  it  necessary  for  those  desiring  seats 
to  purchase  them  immediately."  The  programme  is  pa- 
thetic enough  as  I  look  at  it  to-day,  and  think  of  my  boy- 
ish father  and  young  mother  trying  thus  to  raise  the  wind. 
But  it  was  no  good;  the  populace  remained  indifferent, 
and  the  wolf  approached  the  door.  Meanwhile  the  spirits 
of  the  players  never  flagged.  The  scene-painter  of  the 
theatre  was  one  Isherwood,  who  also  played  parts. 
When  business  had  reached  its  lowest  ebb,  my  father 
said  to  Isherwood:  "Isherwood,  you  must  have  a  bene- 
fit; at  least,"  said  he,  "half  the  success  of  this  thing  is 
due  to  the  scenery.  People  never  think  of  the  scene- 
painter;  it  is  not  fair.  Night  after  night  these  thousands 
of  people  applaud;  we,  the  actors,  take  the  calls,  the 
credit;  no  one  speaks  of  the  scenic  artist,  who  toils  in 
darkness  and  obscurity." 

Isherwood,  during  this  eulogy,  lost  sight  of  the  fact 
that  hardly  any  one  was,  or  had  been,  in  front;  he  looked 
pleased  and  muttered  words  deprecatory. 

"No,  no!"  said  my  father.  "It  shall  be  a  benefit. 
I  will  make  the  announcement  to-night,  and  you,  you 
shall  say  a  few  words  of  appreciation." 

"I  daren't  speak,"  said  Isherwood;  "I  never  made  a 
speech  in  my  life!" 

"Nonsense !  I  will  prompt  you  through  the  hole  in  the 
curtain,"  said  my  father.  (To  the  uninitiated,  let  it  be 
known  that  there  is  usually  a  small  hole  in  the  centre  of 


ISO  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

the  curtain  whence  the  audience  may  be  observed  from 
the  stage.) 

Isherwood,  bashful  and  foolish,  appeared  before  the 
footlights,  his  ear  near  the  hole  in  the  curtain. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  my  father. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  murmured  Isherwood. 

"The  Scripture  moveth  us  in  sundry  places,"  said  my 
father. 

"The  Scripture  moveth  us " 

"Speak  up!"  cried  a  man  in  front.  "Where's your 
voice?" 

"In  sundry  places,"  said  Isherwood. 

"Louder!"  said  another. 

"Queen  Elizabeth,"  said  my  father  through  the  hole 
in  the  curtain. 

"Queen  Elizabeth,"  repeated  Isherwood. 

"Never!" 

"Never!" 

"Stood  on  her " 

"Stood  on  her " 

"Head!" 

"Head!" 

"What's  that  ?"  said  the  voice. 

"Without  lifting  her  feet." 

"Without  lifting  her  feet." 

"Who  are  you  ?"  said  the  voice.  "What  are  you  driv- 
ing at?" 

Isherwood,  confused,  wandered  away  from  the  hole  in 
the  curtain,  and  could  no  longer  hear  my  father,  who 
vainly  whispered  behind  it.  Isherwood  tried  to  find  the 
hole  in  the  curtain  again,  turning  his  back  to  the  audience 
and  looking  as  though  he  were  catching  flies. 

"He  is  drunk!"  remarked  a  sympathizer  in  front. 


ISHERWOOD  151 

"Get.  off!"  said  another. 

My  father  appeared  at  the  side  and  came  on  the  stage. 
He  led  Isherwood  off. 

"Speech!"  cried  the  house. 

"My  friend,  Mr.  Isherwood,"  said  my  father,  "is  the 
scenic  artist  of  this  theatre.  The  enthusiasm  of  your 
reception  has  confused  him;  he  is  unaccustomed  to  speech- 
making.  To  Mr.  Isherwood  we  are  indebted  for  the  gor- 
geous productions  which  have  delighted  your  eye  during 
our  engagement  in  Halifax.  His  is  the  art  which  tran- 
scends nature,  and  creates  an  atmosphere  so  elusive  that 
you  might  as  well  have  no  scenery  at  all.  Upon  the  paint- 
frame  day  and  night,  in  storm  and  shine,  in  sickness  or 
in  health,  his  mother  dying,  his  wife  starving " 

"He  has  no  wife,"  said  a  voice. 

"No,"  said  my  father;  "but  if  he  had,  she  would  be 
starving.  I  repeat,  his  wife  starving,  his  little  children — 
although,  of  course,  he  has  none — crying  for  bread;  the 
scene-painter  paints  !  paints  !  paints  !  V/e,  whose  labors 
have  been  lightened  and  whose  art  has  been  illuminated 
by  Mr.  Isherwood's  genius,  now  propose  to  express  our 
appreciation  in  the  form  of  a  benefit.  This  performance 
will  call  upon  the  full  strength  of  the  company.  The 
artists  concerned  have  with  one  accord  proffered  their 
valuable  services  free;  the  stage-hands,  the  gentlemen  of 
the  orchestra,  our  entire  staff,  bending  the  knee  in  ac- 
knowledgment and  admiration,  stand  prepared  to  do  or 
die  for  Isherwood.  Isherwood  forever!"  cried  my  father. 

Two  or  three  people  out  of  the  small  audience  ap- 
plauded. Isherwood  had  stood  meanwhile,  proud  and 
panting  with  excitement,  in  the  prompt  entrance. 

"One  word  more,"  said  my  father.  "The  unique,  re- 
markable and  overpowering  feature  of  this  entertainment 


i52  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

is  that  there  will  be  no  charge  for  admission  1  Tickets 
will  be  issued  free!*' 

"Hooray!"  cried  a  man  in  the  gallery. 

The  face  of  Isherwood  fell  at  his  feet  1 

"Hooray!"  cried  the  meagre  gathering  in  unison. 

My  father  bowed  himself  off.  Then,  putting  his  head 
around  the  proscenium  arch  suddenly,  he  shouted: 
"But " 

The  audience  turned  to  him. 

"But  there  will  be  a  collection  taken  up  at  the  door!" 

When  my  mother  had  said  good-by  to  her  family,  on 
the  day  of  her  wedding,  there  had  been  many  tears  and 
protestations. 

"Remember,  Fanny,"  Sir  Houston  had  said,  "if  you 
want  me  at  any  time,  no  matter  if  I  am  at  the  other 
end  of  the  world,  let  me  know  and  I  will  go  to  you." 

They  were  devoted  and  the  admiral  meant  what  he 
said. 

In  August,  1857,  Admiral  Sir  Houston  Stewart,  in 
command  of  the  North  Atlantic  fleet,  set  sail  for  Hali- 
fax. 

Things  began  to  look  pretty  badly  for  the  players  at 
the  Halifax  Theatre.  One  final  play  was  to  be  offered 
in  the  hope  of  melting  the  public  heart,  and  then  the 
last  card  had  been  played.  Everybody  was  busy  with 
preparation.  My  mother  was  working  like  a  busy  bee 
at  the  wardrobe;  especially  did  she  labor  at  the  costume 
of  a  little  girl  in  the  company  who  was  poor  and  new 
to  the  game.  This  girl  had  to  have  a  pair  of  embroidered 
slippers.  My  mother  had  been  a  famous  belle  in  Ireland, 
and  she  had  by  her  some  ball  slippers,  memorials  of 
joyous  days  gone  by.  My  mother  had  the  smallest  foot 
in  the  world,  but  her  slippers  just  fitted  this  child.  She 


ISHERWOOD  153 

covered  them  with  black  velvet  and  embroidered  the 
velvet  with  blue  braid  and  spangles  in  an  intricate  de- 
sign. (The  girl  for  whom  they  were  made  gave  me 
these  slippers  thirty  years  after — I  who  was  as  yet  un- 
born.) 

The  play  failed.  Creditors  became  pressing.  The 
lecture  was  abandoned.  It  was  no  more  a  question  of 
how  to  get  people  into  the  theatre,  but  how  to  get  out 
of  town  so  that  the  engagements  for  the  winter  could  be 
fulfilled.  Where  was  the  money  to  come  from  where- 
with to  purchase  the  railway-tickets  for  the  company 
and  to  satisfy  the  quite  amiable  creditors  ?  Not  long 
since  I. met  an  officer  of  the  garrison  who  had  known  my 
father  when  he  was  a  subaltern  at  Halifax  during  this 
time.  He  told  me  this  story  and  said  that  the  substan- 
tial citizens  of  the  town  were  about  to  come  to  the  rescue 
when  help  arrived,  as  it  were,  from  the  blue. 

It  having  been  rumored  that  my  father  and  his  com- 
pany were  about  to  leave  the  city,  some  half  dozen  of 
his  creditors  waited  upon  him.  He  received  them  at 
the  theatre  during  a  rehearsal,  Mr.  Stoddart  and  Mr. 
John  T.  Raymond  being  present. 

"Mr.  Sothern,"  said  the  creditors,  "we  regard  you 
and  your  troupe  with  esteem  and  affection,  but  we  need 
our  money,  and  while  we  sympathize  with  you  in  your 
misfortune,  we  must  have  some  assurance  that  we  will 
be  paid.  What  security  can  you  offer?" 

"None,"  said  my  father.  "None,  but  my  word.  I 
will  pay,  I  promise." 

"Sorry,  but  it  won't  do,"  said  the  amiable  creditors. 

"I  have  to  get  away  to  earn  the  money  to  pay  you 
with,"  said  my  father,  who  had  really  an  engagement 
at  Wallack's  Theatre  .in  New  York  where  he  felt,  with 


i54  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

the  certainty  of  youth,  that  fame  awaited  him  with  open 
arms. 

"It  can't  be  done,"  said  the  creditors.  "We  shall 
have  to  detain  you." 

"But  you  must  observe,"  said  my  desperate  father, 
"that  our  earning  power  here  is  nil.  You  cannot  get 
blood  out  of  a  stone.  I'll  pay  you,  I  promise,  when  my 
ship  comes  in." 

Said  one  of  the  creditors:  "I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Sothern, 
your  ship  is  not  likely  to  bring  you  an  audience.  Indeed, 
a  whole  fleet  full  of  theatregoers  will  be  necessary  to 
meet  your  obligations." 

Said  Mr.  Raymond:  "I  can  call  spirits  from  the  vasty 
deep." 

Said  Mr.  Stoddart:  "And  so  can  I,  and  so  can  any 
man.  But  will  they  come?" 

My  mother  who  had  been  listening  to  this,  pale,  fear- 
ful, terrified,  now  spoke.  Said  she:  "The  ship  will 
come  in.  I  know  it.  The  ship  will  come  in." 

When  one  desires  very  much  that  some  particular 
event  shall  happen  and  then  shortly  it  does  happen,  one 
is  apt  to  regard  the  occurrence  as  a  dispensation  of 
Providence.  My  mother  always  considered  Sir  Houston's 
arrival  as  beyond  the  realm  of  mere  coincidence.  He 
had  promised  to  come  to  her  should  she  want  him.  She 
had  wanted  him — and  he  came.  Things  began  to  look 
very  dark,  indeed,  when  one  day  the  North  Atlantic 
fleet  slowly  passed  the  fort  at  the  mouth  of  the  har- 
bor. 

"Boom!"  went  the  guns — a  salute.  "Boom!"  re- 
plied the  vessels. 

"It  is  my  Admiral  Houston,"  said  my  mother.  "Our 
ship  has  come  in." 


ISHERWOOD  155 

The  movements  of  war-ships  are  not  accidental,  nor 
is  it  the  office  of  the  navy  to  come  to  the  rescue  of  dis- 
tressed Thespians.  Still,  as  I  have  said,  Sir  Houston 
was  assured  that  it  was  not  altogether  the  purposes  of 
the  admiralty  nor  any  chance  that  steered  him  to  Hali- 
fax, and  nothing  could  ever  persuade  my  mother  but 
that  some  pitiful  cherub  had  hovered  over  his  helm. 
However,  there  Sir  Houston  was,  a  very  angel  of  deliv- 
erance, and  a  most  willing  and  capable  angel  he  proved 
to  be. 

My  father  and  mother  hastened  down  to  the  harbor, 
and  securing  a  rowboat  went  out  to  the  flag-ship.  There 
they  were  greeted  by  the  admiral.  Amid  tears  and 
laughter  the  adventures  of  the  season  were  discussed 
and  the  help  of  the  British  navy  implored. 

Several  performances  were  given  "under  the  imme- 
diate patronage  of  Admiral  Sir  Houston  Stewart,  K.  C. 
B."  The  occasion  of  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Sothern  espe- 
cially being  a  gala  night.  The  play  was  "She  Stoops 
to  Conquer,"  with  my  mother  in  the  character  of  Miss 
Hardcastle. 

The  townsfolk  who  had  remained  cold  to  the  allure- 
ments of  the  drama  filled  the  theatre  to  view  the  officers 
and  men  of  the  fleet  who  attended  in  a  body.  The  cred- 
itors were  appeased.  Preparations  were  made  for  de- 
parture to  New  York. 

Those  citizens  and  some  officers  of  the  garrison,  whose 
regard  for  my  father  inspired  a  desire  to  help  him,  waited 
on  him  with  a  purse  which  they  had  subscribed.  With 
much  emotion  he  declined  it;  with  tears  my  mother 
thanked  them. 

Another  scene  of  rescue  was  subsequently  enacted  on 
the  stage  of  the  Halifax  Theatre  in  1859. 


156  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

This  time  not  the  British  navy,  but  the  army  took 
part  in  stirring  events. 

The  relief  of  Lucknow,  during  the  Indian  mutiny, 
occurred  in  1857.  In  1858,  Dion  Boucicault's  drama, 
"Jessie  Brown/'  was  produced  at  Wallack's  Theatre  in 
New  York,  and  in  1859  at  Sothern's  Lyceum  in  Halifax. 
That  very  Highland  regiment  which  had  performed  such 
an  heroic  part  in  the  relief  happened  to  be  quartered  at 
Halifax,  and  the  commander  of  the  regiment  gave  permis- 
sion for  some  of  his  men  who  had  participated  in  the  actual 
drama  to  re-enact  their  characters  on  the  mimic  scene. 

A  gigantic  Highland  officer,  six  feet  six  in  height,  lent 
my  father  his  uniform  to  wear  in  the  character  of  Ran- 
dall McGregor.  My  father's  height  was  five  feet  nine, 
therefore  the  kilt  was  about  twelve  inches  too  long 
for  him.  However,  with  my  mother's  help  and  the  aid 
of  some  safety-pins,  he  took  a  reef  in  it,  and  having  ad- 
justed to  his  head  the  huge  bonnet  made  of  ostrich 
feathers — which  is  as  large  as  a  grenadier's  bearskin — 
he  cut  a  very  fine  figure.  He  rehearsed  in  his  costume, 
and  when  brandishing  his  claymore,  he  cried:  "To 
arms,  men !  One  charge  more,  and  this  time  drive  your 
steel  down  the  throats  of  the  murderous  foe!"  he  felt 
that  success  was  assured.  At  the  last  moment,  how- 
ever, he  found  the  great  ostrich  bonnet  so  very  much 
too  big  for  his  head  that,  to  avoid  possible  accident,  in 
addition  to  the  strap  and  chain  which  is  worn  under  the 
chin  he,  just  before  going  on  the  stage,  secured  it  to  his 
head  with  several  pieces  of  piano  wire  which  went  from 
the  front  of  the  head-piece  about  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  from  the  rear  part  of  it  to  underneath  his  chin. 
This  ingenious  device,  invisible  under  the  shaggy  feathers, 
rendered  the  toppling  busby  practically  immovable. 


ISHERWOOD  157 

At  the  end  of  Act  III  the  Redan  Fort,  which  commands 
a  certain  part  of  the  city  of  Lucknow,  is  besieged  by  the 
rebel  Sepoys.  Breastworks  with  embrasures  for  cannon 
run  across  the  back  of  the  stage.  The  garrison  is  ex- 
hausted. 

"Ten  men  alone  are  fit  for  service.  Ten  men  to  re- 
pulse a  thousand." 

"My  friends,"  says  the  Reverend  David  Blount, 
"it  is  fitting  you  should  know  that  the  last  hour  has  ar- 
rived. The  last  earthly  hope  is  gone.  Let  us  address 
ourselves  to  Heaven.  In  an  hour  not  one  of  these  men 
will  be  living." 

"But,"  cries  Mrs.  Campbell,  "we  shall  be  living.  Oh, 
recollect  Cawnpore.  These  children  will  be  hacked  to 
pieces  before  our  eyes,  ourselves  reserved  for  worse  than 
death.  Kill  us.  If  you  leave  us  here  you  are  accessories 
to  our  dishonor — our  murder." 

Distant  drums  are  heard. 

Cries  Blount:  "They  come!  They  come!  Already 
they  begin  to  ascend  the  hill!" 

"Quick!"  cries  Mrs.  Campbell,  "or  it  will  be  too  late. 
Remember  we  are  women  and  may  not  have  the  courage 
to  kill  ourselves." 

Randall :  Murderers !  They  come  for  their  prey. 
(Dashing  down  his  bonnet)  Yes !  I  will  tear  it  from  their 
rage.  Soldiers,  one  volley,  your  last.  To  free  your 
countrywomen  from  the  clutches  of  the  demons,  one 
volley  to  their  noble  and  true  hearts,  and  then  give  your 
steel  to  the  enemy.  Load  ! 

(The  women  form  a  group  and  cling  together. 

Blount :  (Reading  the  service  for  the  dead)  In  the  midst 
of  life  we  are  in  death. 

(A  distant  wail  of  bagpipes  is  heard.} 


1 58  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Jessie  Brown :  (Starts  up)  Hark !  Hark !  Dinna  ye 
hear  it !  Dinna  ye  hear  it !  Ay !  I'm  no  dreaming. 
It's  the  slogan  of  the  Highlanders  !  We're  saved  !  We're 
saved ! 

(The  bagpipes  swell  louder.  Musketry  t  shouts.  Jessie 
Brown  cries'):  Tis  the  slogan  of  the  McGregor,  the  grand- 
est of  them  a'.  There's  help  at  last ! 

Randall  (Cries}:  To  arms,  men.  One  charge  more, 
and  this  time  drive  your  steel  down  the  throats  of  the 
murderous  foe ! 

(Bagpipes  change  to  "Should  Auld  Acquaintance  be 
Forgot."  Sepoys  appear  at  the  back.} 

(Randall  and  the  Highlanders  with  their  piper  charge  up 
the  breastworks  bearing  down  the  Sepoys  with  the  bayonet. 
The  relieving  forces  enter.  Victory.  Picture?) 

Halifax  being  a  garrison  town,  the  excitement  ran  high 
when  this  military  play  was  announced.  The  commander 
of  the  garrison  with  his  staff,  the  officers  and  the  soldiers 
and  the  citizens  in  gala  attire  composed  a  fine  assembly. 
The  play  went  with  enthusiasm,  and  the  great  climax  of 
the  relief  of  the  beleaguered  garrison  had  wrought  the 
audience  up  to  fever  heat. 

My  father,  quite  carried  away  with  the  heroism  of  his 
part  and  the  intensity  of  the  situation,  when  called  upon 
to  kill  the  women,  cried:  "Murderers!  They  come  for 
their  prey  !"  and  tried  to  obey  the  stage  direction  of  dash- 
ing down  his  bonnet.  However,  the  huge  structure  was 
so  firmly  tied  to  his  head  that  he  only  succeeded  in  pull- 
ing it  over  his  face.  He  struggled  madly  to  extricate 
his  head.  At  length  he  emerged  and  cried:  "Soldiers, 
one  volley,  your  last,  to  free  your  countrywomen  from 
the  clutches  of  the  demons."  He  let  go  the  extinguish- 


ISHERWOOD  159 

ing  head-dress  to  make  a  gesture,  and  again  it  fell  over 
his  countenance.  The  house  was  in  an  uproar.  How- 
ever, the  other  players  proceeded  with  the  business  of  the 
scene,  and  the  general  clamor  promised  to  cover  up  this 
accident.  When  my  father's  next  cue  arrived,  holding 
up  his  bonnet  with  one  hand,  he  waved  his  claymore  with 
the  other  and  cried:  "To  arms,  men!  One  charge  more 
and  drive  your  steel  down  the  throats  of  the  murderous 
foe!"  In  his  excitement,  he  withdrew  his  hands  from 
his  head-piece,  and  again  his  face  disappeared  from  view. 
At  the  same  moment  the  safety-pins  gave  way,  and  the 
huge  kilt  fell  down  to  his  heels.  Blinded  as  he  was  by 
the  giant  of  a  hat,  the  charging  Highlanders,  re-enacting 
their  actual  experience  with  frantic  enthusiasm,  threw 
him  to  the  ground.  When  he  arose  he  was  so  confused 
that  he  ran  in  this  direction  and  in  that,  tripping  over  his 
kilt,  waving  his  claymore,  struggling  to  get  his  head  out 
of  the  bonnet,  and  crying  incoherently:  "Charge,  men! 
Drive  your  steel  down  the  throats  of  the  murderous  foe !" 

The  heroic  rescue  of  Lucknow  was,  of  course,  turned 
into  uproarious  ridicule,  and  the  play  for  that  night 
ruined. 

This  was  in  1859. 

On  August  4,  1914,  the  Cunard  liner  Mauretania  en- 
tered Halifax  harbor;  war  had  been  declared  between 
England  and  Germany  on  August  3d.  The  Mauretania 
was  fired  on  twice  on  the  night  of  the  3d,  and  while  I  was 
on  deck  the  vessel  paused,  trembled,  turned  at  a  right 
angle  and  made  for  Halifax.  On  the  morning  of  the 
4th  I  entered  Halifax  harbor  for  the  first  time.  An  Eng- 
lish gunboat  sped  past  on  its  way  to  seek  battle  with 
some  German  men-of-war.  We  cheered  with  beating 
hearts,  and  the  least  emotional  of  us  felt  the  pulses  beat 


160  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

and  the  eyes  grow  dim.  "The  god  of  war"  was  abroad, 
we  shivered  beneath  the  shadow  of  his  wing.  I  thought 
of  Sir  Houston  and  his  fleet  of  over  half  a  century  ago; 
how  he  had  passed  over  the  very  track  this  gunboat  fol- 
lowed now;  how  he  had  said  at  parting,  "Call  me  from 
the  end  of  the  world  and  I  will  go  to  you";  and  I  said 
to  myself:  "There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth 
than  are  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy." 


XVIII 
THE  COCKED  HAT 

DURING  the  year  of  1870,  a  number  of  small  robberies 
had  occurred  in  the  suburb  of  Kensington.  Nearly  all 
the  houses  in  the  vicinity  had  little  gardens  at  the  rear, 
which  gave  onto  alleyways.  Many  houses  had  very 
large  gardens.  All  of  these  gardens  were  walled  in,  the 
walls  being  about  ten  feet  high.  A  man  had  frequently 
been  seen  to  escape  capture  by  leaping  these  walls  at  a 
bound.  Report  had  credited  this  marauder  with  having 
some  contrivance  of  steel  springs  attached  to  his  feet 
which  enabled  him  to  make  such  astonishing  leaps,  and 
he  had  been  given  the  name  of  "Spring-heel  Jack."  I 
remember  very  well  the  chills  that  went  up  and  down  my 
spine  when  I  heard  of  this  agile  party's  habits.  Dick 
Turpin,  the  Newgate  calendar,  and  the  exploits  of  Jack 
Sheppard  were  recalled  by  my  small  acquaintances,  as 
we  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  any  signs  of  this  Jumping 
Jack. 

About  this  time  my  father,  who  was  a  great  smoker, 
began  to  notice  that  somebody  was  smoking  his  cigars; 
that,  too,  in  a  most  brazen  and  impudent  fashion,  leaving 
the  drawer  of  the  desk  open  wherein  they  were  kept,  and 
strewing  cigars  about  the  table  and  even  the  floor.  On 
one  or  two  occasions  the  hall  door  leading  to  the  garden 
was  found  open  in  the  morning,  after  having  been  care- 
fully locked,  bolted,  and  barred  at  night.  A  half-finished 
glass  of  brandy  and  soda  was  discovered,  one  morning, 

161 


162  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

on  the  floor  of  the  library;  also  the  servants  declared  that 
they  had  heard  some  one  moving  about  the  house  in  the 
dead  of  night.  Everybody  began  to  feel  exceedingly  un- 
comfortable, and  this  discomfort  was  increased  when  our 
next-door  neighbor,  whose  garden  adjoined  ours  and  who 
could  see  into  our  grounds  from  his  windows,  called  one 
day  to  say  he  had  seen  a  man  moving  stealthily  about  our 
lawn  and  among  the  trees  the  night  before. 

My  father  decided  to  keep  watch  himself.  He  loaded 
a  double-barrelled  shotgun  and  sat  up  in  the  dark.  It 
was  a  wearisome  business,  but  he  kept  it  up  for  two 
nights.  Nothing  happened.  The  third  night  he  slept 
as  usual,  and  the  perverse  burglar  ransacked  the  cigar 
drawer  again  that  very  evening.  Not  only  that,  but  he 
had  taken  down  a  number  of  books  from  their  shelves 
and  had  evidently  sat  down  at  my  father's  desk,  smoking 
and  reading.  We  had  several  dogs  which  were  kept  in 
the  stables.  Two  of  these,  a  large  bulldog  and  a  collie, 
were  brought  into  the  house  and  left  at  large  the  next 
evening.  There  was  no  doubt  that  should  a  strange  man 
appear  these  animals  would  raise  a  rumpus.  Indeed  it 
was  confidently  assumed  that  the  bulldog  would  deprive 
the  culprit  of  some  large  mouthfuls  of  cherished  portions 
of  his  anatomy.  Not  at  all.  There  was  not  a  bark,  not 
a  growl.  The  ghostly  visitor  had  come  and  gone  with 
impunity,  and  not  only  that,  but  he  had  actually  taken 
the  dogs  out  for  a  walk  in  the  garden.  The  garden  door 
was  open  again,  and  there  on  the  wet  pathway  were  the 
marks  of  the  feet  of  dogs  and  man. 

A  kind  of  firecracker  was  made  at  that  time  for  the 
use  of  children  who  wished  to  frighten  their  elders  to 
death.  The  cracker  was  about  the  size  of  a  small  cigar; 
there  was  a  string  at  each  end  of  it,  which  could  be  at- 


THE  COCKED  HAT  163 

tached  to  either  side  of  a  doorway,  say  six  inches  from 
the  bottom  of  the  opening.  An  unsuspecting  aunt  or 
uncle  or  nurse  or  parent,  passing  through  the  doorway, 
would  collide  with  this  torpedo,  explode  it,  faint  or  have 
hysterics,  or  otherwise  exhibit  an  amusing  spectacle  of 
grown-up  stupidity,  rage,  and  impotence. 

My  father  procured  some  of  these  crackers  and  secured 
them  to  every  door  in  the  house.  It  was  useless.  The 
next  morning  they  had  all  been  carefully  untied,  so  that 
the  unearthly  visitant  could  pass  through  unscathed  and 
noiseless. 

The  thing  was  becoming  unbearable;  people  began  to 
look  pale  and  wan.  If  one  spoke  to  a  maid  servant  sud- 
denly, she  would  scream  and  jump  two  feet  in  the  air. 
We  had  a  butler  named  Biggs,  and  a  nurse  named  Re- 
becca. These  two  became  so  agitated  that  they  got 
married. 

"I  can't  be  alone  any  more,"  said  Rebecca. 

"This  is  no  house  for  a  single  man,"  said  Biggs. 

The  Biggses  left  us  shortly  to  become  greengrocers. 
Meanwhile  my  father  asked  them  to  sit  up  and  watch. 
They  did  so,  but  fell  asleep  and  were  found  locked  in 
the  library.  The  double-barrelled  gun  which  Biggs  had 
held  ready  for  the  elusive  foe  had  been  taken  from  his 
nerveless  fingers,  unloaded,  and  placed  back  in  its  box. 

"Spring-heel  Jack"  meanwhile  had  jumped  over  many 
adjacent  walls,  and  had  relieved  people  of  many  small 
belongings,  for  such  agility  would  be  hampered  had  he 
purloined  grand  pianos,  hall  clocks,  or  bundles  of  family 
plate.  Bull's-eye  lanterns  were  flashed  in  vain;  a  dozen 
people  had  seen  him  leap  ten,  twenty,  thirty  feet — very 
naturally  the  distance  increased  with  each  narrator. 

Johnson,  my  father's  coachman,  suffered  from  tooth- 


164  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

ache.  One  night  he  was  devoutly  wishing  that  he  was 
toothless  when  he  heard  sounds  in  the  stable  below  his 
sleeping-apartment.  He  arose  and  looked  down  the 
staircase.  My  father's  favorite  mare,  "Topsy,"  which 
he  never  permitted  any  one  to  drive  but  himself,  was 
being  harnessed  to  the  dog-cart  by  a  man  clad  in  a  heavy 
ulster  and  wearing  a  cocked  hat  with  feathers  in  it. 
Johnson's  teeth  chattered.  He  called  his  wife  quietly. 
There  was  the  man  and  there  was  the  cocked  hat,  and 
there  were  the  feathers,  white  and  red.  Johnson  crept 
down  the  staircase  into  the  dark  stable,  bootless  and 
silent.  He  approached  the  man  stealthily.  He  seized 
him  by  the  neck.  The  stranger  turned  quickly  and 
struck  Johnson  an  awful  blow  between  the  eyes.  John- 
son fell  heavily  and  his  head  struck  the  hard  fire-brick 
floor  of  the  coach  house;  he  remained  dead  to  the  world. 
Mrs.  Johnson  naturally  screamed.  This  awoke  the  cook 
who  slept  across  the  yard.  The  cook  spread  the  alarm. 
Soon  the  stable-yard  was  filled  with  excited  people; 
candles  and  lanterns  illuminated  the  scene.  There  was 
"Topsy"  harnessed;  there  was  Johnson  senseless  and 
with  two  damaged  eyes,  and,  best  of  all,  there  was  the 
cocked  hat !  But  where  was  the  stranger  ?  Where  was 
"Spring-heel  Jack"?  For  undoubtedly  it  was  he  who 
was  about  to  steal  the  horse  and  trap. 

My  father  soon  appeared  on  the  scene.  Johnson  was 
lured  back  to  this  world  by  the  aid  of  cold  water  and 
doses  of  brandy.  Held  up  by  sympathizing  fellow 
servants,  he  told  his  tale,  corroborated  by  the  sobbing 
and  trembling  Mrs.  Johnson,  "And  there,"  said  John- 
son, "is  the  cocked  hat." 

"That?"  said  my  father,  taking  the  hat,  "that  is  my 
Claude  Melnotte  hat !  It  has  been  taken  from  the  cup- 


THE  COCKED  HAT  165 

board  in  my  dressing-room !  Well,"  said  my  astonished 
parent,  "if  that  is  not  the  most  infernal  impudence! 
Well,  I'll  be  hanged !" 

"And  so  will  I !"  said  my  mother,  who  stood  clinging 
to  him  wide-eyed  and  excited. 

Everybody  was  up  all  night,  sleep  was  impossible. 
Next  day  the  police  were  consulted;  the  local  guardians 
of  the  peace  had  already  failed  signally  to  throw  any 
light  on  the  identity  of  the  artful  and  persistent  dis- 
turber of  the  serenity  of  Kensington.  For  the  next  two 
or  three  days,  policemen  examined  the  stable-yard; 
they  examined  the  horse;  they  examined  the  dog-cart; 
they  examined  the  bulldog  and  the  collie  dog;  they 
examined  the  double-barrelled  gun;  they  questioned 
everybody;  we  lived  in  a  very  interrogation-point. 
There  was  the  cocked  hat  in  the  library  on  my  father's 
desk,  with  its  feathers,  red  and  white.  That  was  what 
puzzled  the  police,  "why  the  cocked  hat?"  It  was 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  a  man  about  to  steal  a  horse 
and  carriage  would  wish  to  escape  observation  and 
would  don  a  felt  hat,  a  slouch-hat,  a  top-hat,  a  straw 
hat — any  kind  of  ordinary  hat — but  for  a  thief,  de- 
sirous of  concealment,  to  deliberately  select  a  large 
cocked  hat,  trimmed  with  gold  braid  and  ornamented 
with  red-and-white  feathers,  struck  everybody  as  the 
height  of  absurdity,  or  the  acme  of  courageous  insolence. 
Really  the  fellow,  "Spring-heel  Jack,"  defied  capture, 
snapped  his  fingers  at  the  authorities,  put  his  thumb 
to  his  nose  as  it  were  and  twiddled  his  fingers  at  Scot- 
land Yard,  at  the  police  force  in  general,  at  the  army 
and  the  navy — even  the  King  and  Queen  and  the  Tower 
of  London.  Jack  Sheppard  had  reappeared  among  us, 
laughing  at  prison  walls  and  treating  the  officers  of  the 


i66  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

law  as  if  they  were  so  many  postage-stamps — that  is, 
things  to  be  placed  just  where  one  desired  them  to  be, 
permanent  and  immovable. 

"I  say  the  thing  is  impossible!"  cried  my  father, 
"and  something  has  to  be  done." 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

Now  we  all  have  our  prejudices  which  lead  us  into 
error  and  humiliation  and  force  us  to  self-abnegation 
and  apology.  My  father  and  many  another  person 
looked  upon  Uncle  Hugh  as  an  amiable  and  eccentric 
idiot.  So  when  Uncle  Hugh  said,  "Leave  it  to  me," 
my  father  said,  "Pooh!"  my  mother  said,  "Oh  tush!" 
and  the  bystanders  smiled. 

I,  however,  having  braved  untold  hardships  and  dan- 
gers, and  having  accomplished  incredible  adventures 
under  the  leadership  of  Uncle  Hugh,  looked  upon  the 
matter  as  solved  the  moment  that  seafarer  became 
mixed  up  in  it. 

The  time  for  my  father's  tour  of  the  English  provinces 
was  approaching;  the  wardrobe  for  his  various  char- 
acters had  been  replenished;  the  new  things  had  come 
home.  Large  trunks  had  been  brought  up  into  the  large 
spare  bedroom.  My  father  and  mother  had  been  busy 
with  lists  and  labels,  my  father  being  a  most  methodical 
fellow;  each  trunk  was  labelled  with  the  name  of  a  play, 
as  "Our  American  Cousin,"  "David  Garrick,"  "Sam," 
''Dundreary  Married  and  Settled,"  "The  Lady  of  Lyons," 
"The  Hero  of  Romance,"  "The  Captain  of  the  Watch." 
All  of  these  were  to  be  played  on  tour.  The  arrange- 
ment of  all  these  garments — shoes,  boots,  lace  shirts, 
linen  shirts,  cravats,  gloves,  wigs,  hats,  jewels,  stockings, 
and  a  thousand  and  one  other  articles — needed  a  vast 
amount  of  care  and  precision.  My  father  was  playing 


THE  COCKED  HAT  167 

at  the  Haymarket  Theatre  in  town;  he  came  home 
late,  and,  during  the  exciting  events  here  narrated,  he 
had  occupied  this  spare  room  so  that  he  might  not  dis- 
turb my  mother  and  might  look  over  his  lists  in  the 
evening.  The  spare  room  was  now  given  to  Uncle  Hugh, 
who  slept  there  surrounded  by  large  trunks,  as  though 
he  were  admiral  of  a  fleet,  his  bed  the  flag-ship,  and  the 
trunks  a  battle  squadron.  My  father  returned  to  his 
own  apartment. 

"Leave  it  to  me!"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  and  retired  to 
bed,  his  telescope  under  his  pillow  (mere  force  of 
habit),  a  cutlass  in  one  hand,  and  a  six-shooter  in  the 
other. 

At  about  four  bells,  or,  as  we  landlubbers  would  say, 
at  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Uncle  Hugh 
awoke.  He  sat  up  with  a  start;  his  fair  hair  fairly  stood 
up  on  his  head;  his  sea-blue  eyes  protruded  a  consider- 
able distance  toward  the  end  of  his  remarkably  long 
nose.  There,  in  the  moonlight,  stood  a  tall  figure  dressed 
in  the  costume  of  a  general  of  the  time  of  Napoleon — a 
dark-blue  uniform  dress  coat  with  gilt  buttons,  with 
tricolor  sash  of  silk  around  his  waist,  a  pair  of  white- 
cloth  breeches,  boots  to  the  knee  with  tan  tops,  a  linen 
stock,  his  hair  falling  in  plaits  on  each  side  of  his  face, 
and,  on  his  head,  a  general's  cocked  hat  with  red  and 
white  feathers. 

From  mere  force  of  habit,  Hugh  sought  for  his  tele- 
scope, but  this  visitant  from  another  world  was  clear 
enough  to  the  naked  eye.  Hugh  slid  out  of  bed,  grasp- 
ing firmly  his  cutlass  and  his  pistol;  he  steered  to  lee- 
ward of  the  foe.  The  figure  held  a  pencil  in  his  right 
hand  and  a  note-book  in  his  left;  he  was  making  notes, 
but  was  staring  out  of  the  window.  He  was  breathing 


168  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

heavily  and  regularly.  Hugh  levelled  his  pistol  and  hailed 
the  spirit. 

"Ahoy  there!"  said  Hugh.  The  figure  moved  not. 
Mindful  that  my  mother  slept  in  the  next  room  and 
fearful  of  frightening  her,  Hugh  approached  nearer,  a 
little  in  front  of  the  ghost. 

"Ahoy  there!"  whispered  Hugh;  but  the  image  stood 
still,  writing,  writing,  writing  in  the  book. 

Hugh  crept  nearer,  the  moon  shone  full  on  the  face 
of  the  slowly  breathing  thing.  Hugh  came  within  a 
foot  of  its  countenance  and  peered  into  its  eyes.  It  was 
my  father.  He  was  fast  asleep. 

A  figure  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  adjoining  room. 
It  was  my  mother.  She  had  awakened  to  find  my  father 
gone.  Hugh  raised  his  arm  for  silence.  Together  they 
watched  the  strange  figure.  The  garments  for  the  various 
plays  were  arranged  on  tables  and  shelves  about  the 
room,  ready  to  be  placed  in  the  trunks,  each  lot  labelled 
and  listed  with  exact  care.  My  father  always  did  such 
things  himself.  He  now  began  to  pack  these  five  or  six 
trunks;  he  put  everything  in  its  proper  place,  looking 
at  the  lists,  but  only  looking  with  his  mind's  eye.  His 
eyes  gazed  ever  before  him,  but  he  would  take  up  a 
list,  pause,  consider  and  proceed.  He  filled  all  the  trunks, 
put  the  appropriate  lists  in  each  one,  locked  them  up, 
went  out  of  the  room,  down-stairs  to  the  library,  meet- 
ing the  two  dogs  in  the  hall,  which,  of  course,  knew  him 
and  followed  after  him;  opened  the  drawer  of  the  desk, 
took  out  some  cigars,  lighted  one,  dropping  others  on 
the  floor  and  on  the  desk.  He  went  to  the  dining-room, 
helped  himself  to  some  brandy  and  opened  a  bottle  of 
soda-water,  cutting  the  string  with  a  knife  and  exer- 
cised much  care  to  avoid  the  cork  popping  and  the 


THE  COCKED  HAT  169 

soda-water  overflowing.  He  carried  the  drink  back  to 
the  library.  He  sat  at  the  desk  for  some  time  writing, 
without  a  pen  in  his  hand  and  without  any  paper.  For 
some  five  minutes  my  terrified  mother,  and  the  aston- 
ished Hugh  watched  him. 

At  last  he  got  up,  unlocked,  unbarred,  and  opened  the 
garden  door;  went  out  followed  by  the  dogs;  walked 
through  the  garden  to  the  stable,  took  a  private  key  of 
his  own  from  a  certain  window-sill  where  it  was  kept 
in  case  Johnson  should  be  out,  entered  the  stable,  pro- 
ceeded to  harness  "Topsy,"  led  that  sweet  mare  into 
the  coach  house,  put  her  into  the  dog-cart,  mounted 
the  box,  and  drove  out  into  the  stable-yard. 

The  clatter  of  hoofs  brought  Johnson  and  his  wife  to 
the  window.  He  slid  down  the  stairs  and  was  about  to 
yell,  when  Hugh  stopped  him  with  cutlass  and  pistol. 

"It  is  the  master !"  said  my  mother  in  a  dread  whisper. 
"If  you  wake  people  who  walk  in  their  sleep  it  kills  them." 

"That!"  looked  Johnson.  "In  the  cocked  hat,  seated 
there  on  the  box  of  the  dog-cart,  in  that  outlandish  get-up  !" 

My  father  touched  "Topsy"  with  the  whip.  That 
playful  lady  stood  on  one  leg  and  waved  the  other  three 
joyfully  in  the  air. 

"He'll  kill  himself!"  cried  my  mother. 

"Open  the  stable  door,"  said  Hugh,  bounding  up  into 
the  cart  beside  my  father. 

Like  a  flash  went  "Topsy"  through  the  gate,  the  tall  fig- 
ure of  the  Napoleonic  wars — the  Claude  Melnotte  of  the 
play — swaying  gayly  with  the  swaying  cart;  Uncle  Hugh, 
clad  only  in  his  nightshirt  and  a  steamer  rug  and  a  pair 
of  slippers.  Up  the  high  street,  Kensington,  and  as  far 
as  the  entrance  to  Holland  Park  went  "Topsy."  There 
my  father  awoke. 


I7o  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Twelve  pairs  of  black  silk  stockings,  six  court  rapiers, 
six  pairs  of  square-cut  shoes  with  paste  buckles,"  said 
my  father. 

"Ned!"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  "Ned,  are  you  awake?" 

"Of  course  I'm  awake,"  said  my  father. 

A  policeman  came  up.  "Wot's  this  'ere?"  said  he. 
"Fifth  of  November?  Guy  Fawkes  day,  ain't  it?" 

"Policeman,"  said  Uncle  Hugh,  "we  have  been  dream- 
ing." 

"Yes,"  said  my  father,  who  was  well  aware  that  he 
sometimes  had  walked  in  his  sleep,  "we  have  been  dream- 
ing." 

"We  will  now  drive  home,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"Get  up,"  said  my  father,  and  touched  "Topsy."  That 
lady  stood  on  one  leg  again  and  greeted  the  sunrise  with 
a  snort;  then  she  sped  away,  the  cocked  hat  and  the 
red  feather  waving  in  the  morning  air. 

"Dreaming  ?"  said  the  policeman  to  the  milkman,  who 
told  it  to  the  cook,  who  told  it  to  the  nurse,  who  told  it 
generally.  "Dreaming?  Dreaming?  You  can  tell  that 
to  the  marines." 

"Spring-heel  Jack"  was  actually  arrested  shortly  after 
this  eventful  night.  It  transpired  that  he  had  never 
jumped  over  any  wall;  he  had  climbed  walls,  not  to  say 
crawled  over  them;  he  possessed  little  or  no  agility;  was 
far  from  being  a  desperado.  When  he  was  labelled  in 
the  Rogues'  Gallery  the  description  read  "Sneak-thief." 

"Hugh!"  said  my  father,  "Lecoq  was  a  fool  to  you. 
I'm  sorry  I  said  'Pooh!'" 

"  Hugh  certainly  solved  the  mystery,"  said  my  mother. 

"I  am  a  sailor,"  said  Hugh. 

"I  wonder  what  that  had  to  do  with  it,"  said  I. 


XIX 
LORD  DUNDREARY 

LAURA  KEENE  is  reported  to  have  had  a  bad  temper, 
which  took  possession  of  her  to  such  an  extent  that  on 
one  occasion  she  is  said  to  have  thrown  goldfish  about 
the  room  in  her  frenzy.  This  may  or  may  not  be  so,  and 
it  is  not  necessary  to  believe  a  fish  story.  However,  my 
father,  at  that  time  playing  as  Mr.  Douglas  Stewart, 
became  a  member  of  Laura  Keene's  company  about  1857. 
When  that  tempestuous  lady  undertook  to  discipline  that 
audacious  young  man,  she  met  her  Waterloo.  He  out- 
manoeuvred her,  outflanked  her,  and  indeed  defeated  her 
completely.  Mr.  Stewart  had  incurred  Miss  Keene's  dis- 
pleasure at  a  rehearsal.  She  summoned  him  to  her  dress- 
ing-room, and  as  soon  as  he  entered  she  began  a  violent 
tirade.  Mr.  Stewart  stepped  quickly  to  the  gas-jet, 
which  illuminated  the  sacred  chamber,  and,  turning  out 
the  gas,  plunged  the  room  into  darkness. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir!  How  dare  you!"  stormed 
the  lady. 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Keene,"  said  that  impudent  Mr. 
Stewart,  "I  can't  bear  to  see  a  pretty  woman  in  a  temper," 
and  under  cover  of  the  darkness  he  made  his  exit. 

It  was  at  Laura  Keene's  Theatre  that  "Our  American 
Cousin"  was  first  produced.  My  father,  having  now 
taken  his  own  name  of  Sothern,  since  two  other  Stew- 
arts, one  a  manager  and  the  other  an  actor  in  the  same 
company,  created  confusion.  The  story  of  this  produc- 

171 


172 


MY  REMEMBRANCES 


tion  has  often  been  told,  but  a  new  light  was  thrown  upon 
the  history  of  Lord  Dundreary  when  Joseph  Jefferson  re- 
lated to  me  the  following  facts: 

It  appears  that  Mr.  Jefferson  was  at  the  time  of  this 

production  supposed 
to  be  suffering  from 
consumption.  He 
told  me  that  his  doc- 
tors declared  that  his 
only  hope  was  to  be 
out  in  the  fresh  air 
as  much  as  possible. 
That  actually  his  life 
depended  upon  it. 

He  was  glad,  there- 
fore, when  my  father 
joined  Laura  Keene's 
company,  to  discover 
that  he  was  passion- 
ately fond  of  riding. 
They  hired  a  stable 
together   and    pur- 
sue rnoiutioo.  -        chased    two    horses. 

FACSIMILE  OF  PART  OF  ADVERTISEMENT  IN       TI  cU,,r-4    tU-    -Y 

NEW   YORK   HERALD,   OCTOBER    18,    1858,        I  ney   SaZTCQ   tne    CX- 
ANNOUNCING  THE  FIRST  PRODUCTION  OF       __„__  WU:PU  W_Q  _  cp 

"OUR  AMERICAN  COUSIN"  pense,wmcn  was  a  se- 

rious matter,  as  they 

were  both  merely  stock  actors.  When  the  play  of  "Our 
American  Cousin"  was  read  to  the  company,  as  was 
customary,  my  father  was  so  disheartened  with  the  part 
for  which  he  was  cast — Lord  Dundreary,  a  second  old 
man  with  only  a  few  lines — that  he  determined  to  throw 
up  his  engagement  and  leave  America.  He  had  been 
acting  for  ten  years,  and  had,  he  thought,  made  some 


Y  AURA  KEENE'fl  NEW  THEATRE,  644  BROADWAY. 
1  J  The  necessary  arrangements  for  the  production  of  Tom 
Taylor'i  new  and  orlglnallh/ee  act  comedy  having  been  com- 
pleted, the  management  would  respectfully  Inform  the  public 
that  the  first  representation  of 

OUR  AMERICAN  COUSIN. 

which  piece  haa  been  expressly  written  for  this  theatre  bj>  000 
of  the  moat  popular  dramatists  of  the  period,  and 

NKVKR  BKFOBB  AOTKD  ON  ANY  STACK, 
will  lake  place 

MONDAY  EVENING,  OCT.  18,  1858, 
with  D«W  scenery, 

Appropriate  costumes. 

Properties,  appointments,  Ac.,  ft&, 
and  a  cut  comprising  within  Its  limits  nearly  the  entire 
8TRKNOTH  OF  THE  COMEDY  COMPANY. 
OUR  AMERICAN  COUSIN 

Ala  Trenchard,  a  live  Yankee Mr.  JcffeftOn 

fclr  Edward  Trenchard,  a  Hampshire  Baronet. Mr.  Varrey 

Lord  Dundreary Mr.  Sothern 

Lieut  Veruon,  R.  N Mr.  Levlck 

Capt.de  Boots Mr.  Clinton 

Coyle,  attorney  at  law Mr.  Burnett 

Abel  Mureott.  his  cierk Mr.  Couidock 

Binoey,  a  butler Mr.  Peters 

Buddicombe,  Lord  Dundreary's  man Mr.  McDouall 

Rssper,  a  groom Mr.  Wharton 

John  Whicker,  an  under  gardener Mr.  B.  Brown 

Florence  Trenchard Miss  Laura  Keene 

Hit.  Mouutcheninglon Miss  Mary  Welles 

Augusta $K.,xm.M.^.l MlssEffle  Oermon 

GeoVgina J  her  daughters  J Mr*.  Sothern 

Mary  Meredith Miss  bar*  Stevens 

Bharpe,  Miss  Trenchard's  maid Miss  Klynn 

Skillet,  Mrs.  Mountchessinglon's  maid Mrs.  Lerick 

SYNOPSIS  OF  SCENERY  AND  INCIDENTS. 
ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— Morning  Room  at  Trenchard  Manor A  Imy . 

Servants'  gossip.  An  itinerant  post  office  much  more  expe- 
ditious than  the  official  slow  coach.  An  unknown  locality. 
Where  is  BraUleboro,  Vermont?  Florence.  A  trans-Atlantic 
letter.  A  dead  branch  of  the  genealogical  tree  resuscitated. 
An  interesting  Invalid.  An  unexpected  arrival.  Our  Ameri- 
can cousin.  Cousinly  affection  checked.  An  unsatisfactory 
luncheon.  No  chowder.  No  slapjacks.  No  Nothing.  An 
American  drink.  Brandy  smashes  and  chain  lightning. 

SCENKII.— Room  in  Trenchard  Manor , . . . .  JThorne. 

A  model  lawyer  and  a  drunken  clerk.    Debt,  the  nemesis. 


A  financial  panic.  An  old  mortgage,  but  no  release,  fraud 
la  perspective.  A  terrible  price.  A  daughter's  happiness  for 
a  father's  safety.  A  female  Robin  Hood.  Hopeless  Inebriety. 


NEW  TOKK,  MONDAY,  NOVEMBER  22,  1858. 


millEl™TRfi* 


624    Brordway,  twtween  Houstou     i'il  Ulreckcr  street. 




MONDAY      EVENING,    NOV.    22nd,   1858,^ 

iJTD   EVEBT    Ml. II  I    rSTTI.  I  I  KT1IF.K   JKllfltE. 

W'l  '      •>  "       ~"~  ;1 

Strength  of  the  Comedy  Company,  | 


fDumb  Belle 

Bsa 


A     MIDSUMMER     NIGHT'S     DREAM 


Reproduced  by  courtesy  of  John  F.  Hinchman 
PROGRAMME    LAURA    KEENE*S    THEATRE, 
NOVEMBER   22,    1858 


LORD  DUNDREARY  173 

impression,  and  he  felt  that  if  his  years  of  labor  had 
brought  him  no  further  reward,  he  would  give  up  the 
struggle.  He  told  Jefferson  that  he  proposed  to  return 
to  England  and  enter  his  father's  office  in  Liverpool,  to 
devote  himself  to  mercantile  pursuits.  At  once  it  oc- 
curred to  Mr.  Jefferson  that  if  my  father  went  away  he 
would  have  to  abandon  the  stable;  he  could  not  bear  the 
expense  alone.  He  used  all  his  powers  of  argument  to 
induce  my  father  not  to  throw  up  his  part.  Joe  Jeffer- 
son was  the  leading  comedian  of  the  company,  and  he 
promised  my  father  that  with  Miss  Keene's  consent,  he 
would  permit  him  any  liberty  in  the  scenes  they  might 
have  together. 

"But  I  have  no  scenes,"  said  my  father;  "I  have  only 
about  ten  lines." 

"We  will  have  scenes,"  said  Jefferson;  "we  will  make 
them." 

He  persuaded  the  dejected  Mr.  Sothern  to  at  least  at- 
tend the  first  few  rehearsals,  and  he  did  so.  Jefferson 
was  as  good  as  his  word,  of  course,  and  Miss  Keene  was 
induced  to  allow  Lord  Dundreary  much  liberty.  My 
mother  played  Georgina,  the  part  opposite  my  father,  and 
she  and  he  worked  up  many  lines  and  replies  at  home, 
and  were  allowed  to  introduce  them  into  the  play.  If 
you  have  ever  seen  this  comedy  you  may  have  remarked 
that  nearly  all  of  Dundreary's  scenes  are  with  Asa  Tren- 
chard  or  Georgina.  Jefferson  worked  hard  to  help  his 
fellow  horseman,  and  day  by  day  Dundreary  was,  as  it 
were,  superimposed  upon  the  play.  The  success  of  the 
character  was  not  so  great  at  first,  but  it  grew  as  the  actor 
felt  his  way.  The  printed  play  as  sold  by  French  & 
Son  represents  the  result  of  the  first  two  seasons  or  so  of 
performances.  Every  season  that  my  father  played  the 


174  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

piece  it  was  altered  and  added  to;  his  work  on  it  was  con- 
stant and  unremitting.  Many  actors  played  the  part, 
indeed  it  was  commonly  played  by  the  stock  companies 
of  the  day,  but  my  father  always  kept  ahead  with  fresh 
ideas.  The  play  was  gradually  simplified  from  a  drama 
of  three  acts  of  four  scenes  each  to  a  play  of  four  acts  of 
one  scene  each,  the  first  and  last  scene  being  the  same. 
My  father  each  year  copied  out  his  own  prompt-books, 
or  had  them  copied,  and  then  wrote  in  his  most  recent 
additions.  I  have  many  such  prompt-books,  with  most 
minute  notes  and  directions.  When  I  played  the  play, 
nearly  thirty  years  after  his  death,  these  manuscripts 
were  so  perfect  that  I  had  no  difficulty  in  recalling  every 
movement  of  all  the  characters.  My  father's  genius  was 
indeed  the  genius  of  infinite  pains.  I  have  heard  him 
relate  that  the  little  skip  he  used  in  his  gait  in  Dundreary 
originated  simply  from  his  habit  of  trying  to  keep  in  step 
with  my  mother  as  they  walked  up  and  down  at  the  back 
of  the  stage  arranging  their  lines.  The  skip  and  the 
stutter  and  other  business  grew  and  grew  from  per- 
formance to  performance.  As  Jefferson  says  in  his 
"Life,"  the  character  of  Dundreary  gradually  pushed  all 
the  other  characters  out  of  the  play. 

Another  unpublished  incident  of  the  history  of  this 
comedy  came  to  me  by  accident,  when  one  evening,  while 
I  was  playing  the  piece  in  America,  my  manager  told  me 
that  an  old  Englishman  who  kept  the  gallery  door  wished 
to  see  me.  I  asked  him  to  come  behind  the  scenes.  He 
had,  he  said,  occupied  a  position  in  the  great  dry-goods 
store  of  Marshall  &  Snellgrove  in  London  at  the  time 
of  the  first  production  of  "Our  American  Cousin,"  at  the 
Haymarket  Theatre.  Mr.  Buckstone  was  the  manager 
of  the  Haymarket.  It  was  his  habit  when  business  was 


From  a  photograph  by  C.  D.  Fredericks  y  Co.  in  the  collection  of  Robert  Coster 

E.    A.    SOTHERN    AS    LORD    DUNDREARY,    1858 


LORD  DUNDREARY  175 

bad  to  distribute  a  number  of  free  seats  among  the  em- 
ployees of  this  establishment.  One  day  Mr.  Buckstone 
called  and  said:  "This  new  play,  'Our  American  Cousin,' 
is  an  absolute  failure.  The  house  is  empty,  and  I  want 
to  make  an  effort  to  fill  it  on  Saturday  night.  I  think 
this  new  man,  Sothern,  is  very  funny,  and  if  he  can  get 
a  house,  I  believe  he  will  succeed."  A  great  number  of 
seats  were  given  out,  but  curiously  on  that  Saturday  the 
fact  that  Lord  Dundreary  was  an  amusing  personage  had 
attracted  a  number  of  people  to  the  pit.  It  was  the  pit 
that  Mr.  Buckstone  especially  desired  to  fill,  for  the  pit 
to  "rise  at  one,"  was  then,  as  now,  extremely  desirable. 
Together  with  free  tickets  and  those  who  wished  to  pay, 
there  was  such  a  crush  at  the  pit  entrance  that  a  woman 
was  thrown  down  and  trampled  to  death  in  a  panic  which 
ensued.  On  Monday  the  papers  were  full  of  this  accident. 
Correspondence  ensued,  much  advertising  was  the  result, 
and,  said  my  new  friend,  "the  success  of  the  play  was 
assured  from  that  moment."  To  what  untoward  cir- 
cumstance may  we  not  owe  our  success  or  failure!  That 
poor  woman's  death  may  have  actually  turned  the  for- 
tune of  the  play,  for  if  it  had  not  drawn  on  the  next 
Monday,  it  was  Mr.  Buckstone's  intention  to  take  it  off. 
The  play  ran  for  four  hundred  and  ninety-six  nights  at 
the  Haymarket  and  made  the  fortune  of  Mr.  Buckstone 
and  of  my  father. 

Two  curious  circumstances  happened  during  this 
English  engagement.  One  night,  after  "Dundreary" 
had  been  triumphant  for  about  a  year,  and  my  father 
felt  more  than  assured  of  his  great  success,  a  weary 
swell  in  the  first  row  of  the  stalls  arose  about  the  mid- 
dle of  the  second  act,  deliberately  put  on  his  coat, 
stretched  himself,  yawned  audibly,  while  people  mur- 


176  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

mured  "Hush!"  "Sit  down!"  etc.,  and  started  un- 
perturbed up  the  aisle.  My  father,  greatly  nettled 
but  feeling  sure  of  sympathy  from  the  disturbed  spec- 
tators, went  down  to  the  footlights  and  said:  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  my  dear  sir,  but  there  are  two  more  acts 
after  this." 

"I  know,"  said  the  weary  one,  "that's  why  I'm  going." 

It  is  dangerous  to  step  out  of  one's  part.  An  old 
friend  of  my  father,  one  Doctor  Simpson,  induced  him 
to  go  out  of  town  to  play  one  matinee  performance  of 
"Dundreary."  My  father,  feeling  that  he  was  conferring 
rather  a  favor  on  the  small  community,  went  with  his 
company.  This  Simpson  was  a  great  joker,  and  went 
about  telling  the  rustic  auditors  that  this  man  Sothern, 
being  an  eminent  London  actor,  they  must  be  careful 
about  their  demeanor  in  the  theatre.  "This  is  no  cheap 
kind  of  play,"  said  he.  "You  must  not  let  this  man 
think  we  have  no  manners.  Don't  applaud,  don't  laugh; 
it  isn't  done,  people  of  taste  don't  do  it.  Laugh  when 
you  get  home,  but  remember,  'the  loud  laugh  denotes 
the  vacant  mind.'  If  you  like  this  man's  acting,  say  so 
quietly  when  you  meet  him  at  the  reception  after  the 
play." 

Never  was  there  such  a  night.  The  house  crowded  to 
the  doors  and  not  a  sound  of  welcome,  not  a  sound  of 
laughter  at  this  most  comic  of  characters.  For  two 
acts  my  distracted  father  endured  torture,  the  fiendish 
Simpson  running  around  to  him  every  now  and  again, 
hitting  him  on  the  back  and  whispering  vehemently: 
"Isn't  it  great!  I  never  saw  such  enthusiasm!  They're 
simply  mad  about  it!" 

"The  devil  they  are!"  said  my  wretched  father. 
"They  are  as  dumb  as  oysters." 


From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 

EDWARD    A.    SOTHERN    AS    LORD    DUNDREARY    IN 
"OUR    AMERICAN    COUSIN" 


LORD  DUNDREARY  177 

It  came  to  the  third  act  where  there  is  a  long  and 
most  arduous  monologue  of  nearly  half  an  hour.  Not 
a  sound.  My  father  could  endure  no  more.  He  arose 
from  the  stool  whereon  he  sat,  walked  down  to  the  foot- 
lights and  said:  "Ladies  and  gentlemen,  if  you  don't 
laugh  I  can't  go  on."  Pandemonium  broke  loose.  People 
shouted  and  wept.  My  father  for  once  was  nonplussed, 
but  he  caught  sight  of  Simpson  in  a  box  self-possessed 
and  smileless,  and  a  light  broke  in  upon  his  dark- 
ness. 

I  have  been  nursed  on  more  knees  than  any  other 
baby  in  America.  While  the  men  and  women  of  my 
father's  generation  were  yet  alive,  I  would  constantly 
meet  elderly  people,  males  and  females,  who  would  ex- 
claim: "Why,  I  nursed  you  on  my  knee  when  you  were 
a  baby!"  Old  Couldock,  Mrs.  Walcot,  Joe  Jefferson, 
Stoddart,  William  Warren,  Mrs.  Vincent — I  could  name 
a  thousand  in  public  and  private  life  whose  knees  had 
accommodated  me.  From  knee  to  knee  I  would  seem 
to  have  hopped  as  birds  from  bough  to  bough.  I  must 
have  reposed  upon  as  many  bosoms  as  did  Queen  Eliza- 
beth on  four-post  beds.  Whether  I  was  nursed  thus  be- 
cause I  was  either  beautiful  or  good,  or  because  the 
last  good  Samaritan  desired  to  hand  me  on  rapidly  to 
the  next,  history  sayeth  not.  Perchance  my  mother,  in 
her  busy  life  at  that  time,  had  constantly  to  say  to  the 
bystanders,  "Here!  hold  the  baby!"  while  she  ran  to 
take  up  her  cue  at  rehearsal;  the  infant  would  have  to 
be  controlled  by  an  alien  hand,  while  "  Ride  a  cockhorse," 
and  "Pat-a-cake,  baker's  man"  may  have  been  sung  in 
my  ear  by  many  an  unwilling  nurse. 

It  is  not  always  that  one  may  excite  admiration  con- 
cerning one's  personal  charms  before  one  has  entered 


i78  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

upon  this  stage  of  fools.  Such,  however,  was  my  good 
fortune.  I  have  a  letter,  written  by  my  father  from  New 
Orleans,  to  his  sister  in  England;  it  says: 

Lytton  is  the  most  strictly  beautiful  child  you  ever 
saw.  Fan  [my  mother]  is  looking  over  my  shoulder 
as  I  write  and  says:  "Of  course  the  baby  will  be  the 
same." 

The  baby  was  myself.  On  December  6,  1859,  at 
79  Bienville  Street,  New  Orleans,  the  baby  appeared. 
My  father,  careful  to  remember  unimportant  details, 
made  a  memorandum  in  a  scrap-book  of  theatrical  no- 
tices; among  other  notes,  such  as  the  sum  due  his  land- 
lady, and  the  number  and  variety  of  articles  of  clothing 
in  the  wash,  he  had  jotted  down:  "December  6,  1859, 
4  A.  M.,  79  Bienville  Street,  New  Orleans,  boy  born." 

One  is  apt  to  forget  a  thing  like  that;  a  baby  may 
readily  be  mislaid,  and  it  is  always  wise  to  make  notes. 
While  the  event  was  still  fresh  in  his  memory,  the  de- 
lighted parent  wrote  with  enthusiasm  to  his  friend  Cone, 
the  father  of  Kate  Claxton,  whose  brother  gave  me  the 
letter: 

DEAR  CONE: 

The  long  expected  youth  has  at  last  arrived.  The 
very  first  thing  he  did  was  to  sneeze,  so  the  least  we  can 
do  is  to  call  him  Dundreary  Sothern. 

At  the  time  of  my  birth  my  father  was  a  member  of 
a  stock  company  in  New  Orleans.  It  was  shortly  after 
the  successful  production  of  "Our  American  Cousin" 
at  Laura  Keene's  Theatre  in  New  York.  This  present 
enterprise  was  my  father's  venture,  and  the  theatre  was 
called  for  the  occasion  "Sothern's  Varieties."  Here  a 


LORD  DUNDREARY  179 

large  and  varied  repertoire  was  played,  my  mother  doing 
her  share  of  this  work  and  even  adapting  a  drama  from 
the  French,  called  in  English  "Suspense,"  which  was  a 
great  success.  Lawrence  Barrett  and  John  T.  Raymond 
were  members  of  the  organization. 

I  left  New  Orleans  as  a  baby,  and  did  not  return  until 
I  was  nineteen  and  a  member  of  John  McCullough's 
company.  I  sought  out  my  birthplace,  and  discovered 
it  with  some  difficulty,  for  the  numbers  of  the  houses 
had  been  changed;  but  at  last  I  found  the  spot,  a  strange, 
foreign-seeming  building  constructed  about  a  court- 
yard which  was  surrounded  by  galleries  like  an  ancient 
English  inn.  The  place  was  still  a  lodging-house;  in- 
deed the  woman  who  had  kept  it  during  my  father's 
time  was  not  long  dead.  I  was  able  from  description 
often  repeated  to  locate  the  very  rooms  my  father  and 
mother  occupied,  and  the  room  wherein  I  first  made  my 
entrance.  The  old  Saint  Charles  Hotel  was  then  in  exis- 
tence— the  building  of  the  war-times.  I  hied  me  with 
much  interest  to  the  barroom,  for  there  was  the  scene 
of  a  tragedy  whereof  I  had  heard  my  father  speak.  In 
that  large  and  rather  gloomy  hall,  supported  by  columns, 
had  been  fought  a  duel  between  an  actor  named  Harry 
Copeland  and  one  Overall,  a  newspaper  man.  My  father 
was  present  at  this  conflict — and  barely  saved  his  life 
by  jumping  behind  one  of  these  same  columns. 

While  I  was  in  New  Orleans  on  this  visit,  an  old  lady 
gave  me  a  small  fawn-colored  coat,  very  old-fashioned, 
with  high  collar,  bell-shaped  cuffs,  pearl  buttons  as 
large  as  a  half-dollar,  much  moth-eaten.  On  the  small 
strap  by  which  coats  are  hung  was  the  name  of  Dion 
Boucicault.  When  "Our  American  Cousin"  was  first 
produced  in  New  York,  Boucicault  had  lent  my  father 


i8o  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

this  coat  to  wear  in  his  part;  my  father  had  given  it 
to  the  husband  of  this  woman  as  a  keepsake,  and  here 
it  was  back  again  with  me.  When  I  reached  home  I 
looked  into  the  ancient  pockets  and  behold!  there  was 
a  paper  and  written  in  my  father's  hand,  some  mem- 
oranda: 

Get  "Peter  Parley's  Tales"  for  Lytton. 

Lent  So-and-so  twenty-five  dollars;  this  makes  forty- 
five  he  owes  me. 

Fan's  birthday. 

Have  part  copied. 

Pad  for  Kinchin  and  prompt-book  of  "Flowers  of  the 
Forest." 

Write  to  Polly  (his  sister). 

Name  of  baby — Hugh  —  Edward — John — Edwin — 
Francis — Askew — also  shoes. 

Hair-cut. 

Here   certain   sums   in   arithmetic,    evidently    profits 
and  losses. 
Then  comes  the  startling  announcement: 

To-day  the  baby  distinctly  said  "DASH  IT!" 

This  epoch-making  remark  of  mine  has  escaped  the 
eye  of  contemporaneous  historians.  It  may  appear  a 
matter  of  no  moment  to  the  unobservant  for  one  small 
babe  to  say  "Dash  it!"  One's  first  observation  does 
not  carry  the  same  significance  as  one's  last.  Whether 
"Dash  it!"  was  a  reminiscence  or  a  criticism  or  an  ex- 
pletive, whether  spoken  in  the  spirit  of  inquiry,  rebuke, 
comment,  contrition,  or  abuse,  joy  or  grief  or  pleasure 
or  regret,  may  not  be  known.  That  it  was  a  statement 
worthy  of  record  is  established  beyond  a  doubt.  At 


E.  A.  SOTHERN  AS  THE  KINCHIN  IN      THE  FLOWERS 
OF  THE  FOREST" 


LORD  DUNDREARY  181 

that  time  it  was  an  utterance  of  some  consequence; 
the  fate  of  nurseries  depended  on  it.  Evidently  it  was 
an  event  expected  and  prepared  for.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  accident  of  my  meeting  with  the  old  lady  who 
gave  me  the  coat,  this  oration  might  never  have  been 
chronicled,  and  the  first  address  of  a  distinguished  citizen 
to  his  native  city  would  have  been  buried  in  oblivion. 
Whether  I  was  "dashing"  the  world,  or  the  nurse,  or 
life,  or  things  in  general,  is  not  set  down;  that  I  even 
meant  what  I  said  is  not  now  to  be  established.  That 
I  "dashed"  something  was  evident.  The  dashed  thing 
that  was  dashed  must  forever  remain  a  mystery. 


XX 
ALL  MIRTH  AND  NO  MATTER 

THE  difference  between  wit  and  humor  has  often  been 
debated. 

"This  fellow's  wise  enough  to  play  the  fool,  and  to  do 
that  well  craves  a  kind  of  wit." 

Here  wit  and  wisdom  are  synonymous. 

Says  the  Oxford  dictionary  of  wit:  "Intelligence,  un- 
derstanding, power  of  giving  sudden  intellectual  pleasure 
by  unexpected  combining  or  contrasting  of  previously  un- 
connected ideas  or  expressions."  Of  humor:  "State  of 
mind,  mood,  jocose  imagination,  less  intellectual  and  more 
sympathetic  than  wit." 

The  practical  joker  comes  under  the  category  of  wit, 
I  fancy;  yet  there  are  practical  jokes  and  practical  jokes. 
It  may  be  a  practical  joke  to  crush  an  old  gentleman's 
hat  over  his  eyes,  but  such  an  attack,  though  it  may 
cause  laughter,  is  hardly  an  exhibition  of  intelligence  or 
understanding,  nor  can  the  pleasure  excited  in  the  on- 
looker be  classed  as  intellectual.  But  a  carefully  pre- 
pared and  elaborate  series  of  events  leading  up  to  a  comic 
predicament,  such  as  my  father  perpetrated  when  Bryant's 
minstrel  men  impersonated  the  elite  of  New  York,  and 
by  a  "shoot-up"  at  a  dinner-party  drove  an  ingenuous 
Englishman  to  seek  refuge  under  the  table — here  one 
may  beg  to  class  ideas  in  action  with  wit.  "The  clown 
shall  make  those  laugh  whose  lungs  are  tickled  o*  the 

sere,"  says  Hamlet.     This  result  may  readily  be  achieved 

182 


ALL  MIRTH  AND  NO  MATTER          183 

by  blows  from  the  bawble  with  the  bladder  usually  at- 
tached thereto.  The  wit  proceeds  by  finer  methods; 
imagination,  premeditation,  and  a  distinct  intellectual 
quality  distinguish  his  inventions.  I  think,  therefore, 
that  my  father's  practical  jokes — for  which,  in  his  day, 
he  was  more  or  less  famous — proceeded  from  his  wit. 

The  macaroni  of  Sheridan's  time,  who  upset  the  watch- 
men and  buried  them  in  their  sentry-like  boxes,  who 
wrenched  the  knockers  off  doorways  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  and  ran  their  rapiers  through  peaceful  pedestrians, 
were  hardly  witty.  But  Sheridan  was  a  wit. 

When  his  creditor,  the  livery-stable  keeper,  called  in  his 
carriage  to  collect  his  heavy  account,  Sheridan,  enter- 
taining him  with  wine  and  wit,  not  only  persuaded  him 
to  forego  payment,  but  borrowed  a  heavy  sum  from  him, 
and  then,  having  excused  himself,  drove  away  in  the 
liveryman's  carriage.  When  the  liveryman,  weary  of 
waiting  for  his  host's  return,  was  told  Mr.  Sheridan  had 
taken  his  vehicle,  he  cried:  "Gone  in  my  carriage!" 

To  which  the  servant  replied:  "Mr.  Sheridan  never 
walks!" 

When  the  town  heard  this,  the  adventure  was  hailed 
as  the  exploit  of  wit.  But  there  may  have  been  some- 
thing of  cruelty  in  it,  since  one  speaks  of  the  "victim"  of 
a  wit;  while  humor,  depending  more  upon  the  grotesque 
and  unexpected  in  the  demeanor  and  utterance  of  the 
humorist,  is  perhaps  devoid  of  that  quality. 

The  practical  joke  certainly  presupposes  a  victim; 
somebody  has  to  be  put  in  a  foolish  and  laughable  situa- 
tion. Even  a  community  may  be  made  to  look  ridiculous. 
This  occurred  when  my  father,  playing  under  the  name  of 
Mr.  Douglas  Stewart,  then  a  member  of  Laura  Keene's 
company  in  New  York,  put  an  advertisement  in  the  paper 


1 84  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

and  distributed  hand-bills  to  the  effect  that  Professor 
Cantellabiglie  (can  tell  a  big  lie)  would  fly  from  the  top 
of  Trinity  steeple  at  noon  on  a  certain  day  in  the  year 
1859.  At  the  appointed  hour  the  crush  was  so  great 
that  traffic  was  utterly  disorganized;  a  riot  seemed  im- 
minent. A  free  fight  for  coigns  of  vantage  took  place  in 
many  localities.  The  police  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in 
handling  the  huge  crowds.  At  last  some  one  while  con- 
templating the  name  of  the  new  Icarus  discovered  the 
joke. 

"Can  tell  a  big  lie !"  he  shouted.    "It's  a  hoax  I" 

A  roar  of  rage,  another  of  laughter  succeeded.  Then 
the  town  laughed  at  the  town,  and  each  man  at  his 
neighbor.  The  joker  was  not  discovered  for  some  days. 
When  Mr.  Douglas  Stewart  announced  himself  as  the 
perpetrator  of  the  joke,  it  was  admitted  that  he  had  done 
well. 

I  have  met  men  in  this  year  of  1914  who  are  still  laugh- 
ing at  Cantellabiglie.  Any  man  who  can  provide  such 
perennial  amusement  is  a  public  benefactor. 

When  I  was  at  school  in  London  in  1875,  mv  pastors 
and  masters,  like  most  other  Englishmen,  were  per- 
suaded that  one  shot  buffalo  in  Central  Park,  and  that 
red  Indians  perambulated  on  Fifth  Avenue,  exchanging 
skins  for  beads,  and  occasionally  shooting  with  poisoned 
arrows  at  offending  citizens.  One's  scalp  was  supposed 
to  be  somewhat  unsafe,  and  to  breakfast  without  one's 
six-shooter  by  one's  plate  and  one's  bowie-knife  in  one's 
boot  was  to  be  branded  as  a  reckless  fellow.  Mr.  Phillip 
Lee,  the  husband  of  Miss  Adelaide  Neilson,  was  of  these 
opinions.  My  father  took  pains  to  cultivate  such  views, 
and  on  his  arrival  in  New  York  met  Mr.  Lee  at  the  dock 
with  a  brass  band,  conducted  him  to  the  Gramercy  Park 


From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 

EDWARD    A.    SOTHERN    ABOUT    1875 


ALL  MIRTH  AND  NO  MATTER         185 

Hotel,  discussed  the  buffalo  hunt  for  the  following  day, 
which  was  to  be  accompanied  by  a  band  of  Sioux  Indians, 
and  left  his  guest  to  dress  himself  for  a  great  banquet 
which  was  to  be  given  in  his  honor  that  same  evening. 
To  this  occasion  had  been  invited  the  most  eminent  men 
of  the  United  States — a  great  number  of  judges,  colonels, 
major-generals,  doctors,  senators,  professors,  and  so  on. 
Mr.  Lee,  being  a  distinguished  foreigner,  was  to  be 
greeted  by  the  elite  of  New  York. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  my  father  had  conspired  with  his 
friend,  Dan  Bryant,  the  celebrated  minstrel  man,  who 
arrived  at  the  appointed  hour,  accompanied  by  about 
thirty  of  his  comedians,  attired  in  more  or  less  aristo- 
cratic if  somewhat  outre  costume.  My  father  had  pre- 
pared Lee  for  the  primitive  manners  of  the  uncouth  Amer- 
ican; but  he  was  somewhat  taken  aback  at  a  certain 
freedom  of  expression,  and  became  ill  at  ease  when  each 
guest,  as  he  took  his  place  at  the  dinner-table,  placed  a 
six-shooter  of  great  size  by  his  plate. 

"It  is  nothing,"  whispered  my  father  to  his  guest  of 
honor;  "merely  custom;  very  touchy,  these  people;  great 
sense  of  honor;  let  us  hope  there  will  be  no  bloodshed." 

This  humane  desire  was  dashed,  however,  when,  grace 
having  been  said,  Dan  Bryant  drank  his  soup  from  the 
plate  and  demanded  a  second  helping.  A  guest  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table  laughed.  Mr.  Bryant  requested 
to  know  what  caused  the  amusement  of  his  honorable 
friend,  Judge  Morton.  A  short  colloquy  followed  which 
culminated  in  the  Honorable  Mr.  Bryant  shooting  across 
the  table  at  the  Honorable  Mr.  Morton,  and  that  agile 
gentleman  jumping  on  to  the  table,  bowie-knife  in  hand, 
loudly  avowing  his  intention  of  cutting  the  heart  out  of 
the  Honorable  Mr.  Bryant. 


186  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Friends  adjusted  this  initial  difficulty;  explanations 
were  in  order,  hands  were  shaken,  drinks  were  taken, 
apologies  to  the  guest  of  the  evening  were  made,  and  the 
fish  was  served.  Some  one  made  a  remark  about  some 
one  else  being  "a  queer  fish." 

"A  reflection  on  our  host!"  cried  a  major-general, 
"the  fish  is  first  rate!" 

"You  lie!"  remarked  a  distinguished  senator. 

Panic  ensued.  A  fight  with  bowie-knives  at  once  took 
everybody  from  the  table.  Up  and  down  the  room  strug- 
gled the  combatants;  now  the  knives  were  in  the  air, 
visible  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd;  now  they  were 
apparently  plunged  into  the  bodies  of  the  honorable 
major-general  and  the  honorable  senator.  Shrieks,  curses, 
demands  for  fair  play  shook  the  chandeliers.  At  last  the 
honorable  senator  was  slain;  his  body  was  taken  into  the 
adjoining  room,  the  door  closed,  the  banquet  resumed. 

Lee  was  in  a  highly  excited  state  and  suggested  the 
police. 

"No,  no!"  said  several  honorable  gentlemen,  senators, 
judges,  and  professors,  "we  always  settle  these  matters 
among  ourselves.  The  coroner  is  a  friend  of  ours;  he 
invariably  attends  after  any  important  gathering." 

The  dinner  proceeded.  Speeches  of  welcome  to  Mr. 
Lee,  the  distinguished  guest,  were  in  order.  Replies 
by  my  father  and  Lee  were  offered  amidst  great  applause 
and  laughter.  Lee  especially  was  acclaimed;  every  word 
he  said  was  the  signal  for  shouts  of  appreciation.  The 
conspirators  were  waiting  for  a  cue  to  cap  the  excite- 
ment of  the  night.  Lee  provided  it  when  he  said,  with 
a  desire  to  conciliate  everybody  and  appease  the  war- 
ring factions:  "I  was  born  in  England,  my  mother  was 
Irish  and  my  father  was  Scotch.  As  an  Englishman, 


ALL  MIRTH  AND  NO  MATTER         187 

I  salute  you !  as  a  Scotchman,  I  greet  you !  as  an  Irish- 
man, I  cry,  'Erin  go  bragh !' 3 

"He  means  me!"  cried  a  senator,  bringing  a  bowie- 
knife  from  the  back  of  his  neck.  Like  a  flash  a  bullet 
from  a  doctor  of  divinity  laid  him  low.  A  dozen  shots 
rang  out.  Some  one  gave  a  signal,  and  the  lights  were 
extinguished.  A  general  battle  ensued  amid  such  a 
turmoil  that  chaos  seemed  come  again;  the  table-cloth 
was  pulled  from  the  table  with  a  crash  of  glass  and  crock- 
ery. A  great  banging  at  doors  added  to  the  din.  Cries 
of  "Murder!"  "Kill  him!"  "Knife  him!"  rent  the 
air. 

When  the  gas  was  lit  at  last  and  silence  was  restored, 
the  floor  was  strewn  with  victims.  Lee  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  Search  revealed  him  hiding  under  the  table, 
his  teeth  chattering,  his  hair  on  end,  and  terror  in  his 
eye.  He  was  extricated.  The  dead  men  arose  and  hoped 
he  had  not  been  disturbed  by  the  slight  misunderstand- 
ing. Law  and  order  was  restored,  and,  amid  much  good 
feeling,  the  buffalo  hunt  was  arranged  for  the  following 
morning. 

The  practical  joker's  day  is  past.  He  began  to  fade 
with  the  doings  of  Theodore  Hook;  my  father  was  about 
the  last  of  his  race,  as  Count  D'Orsay  was  the  last  of  the 
dandies.  Times  are  changed,  but  there  are  men  alive 
still  who  remember  Cantellabiglie  and  the  dinner  to 
Phil  Lee,  and  who  yet  laugh  as  they  remember.  Many 
and  many  a  man  has  introduced  himself  to  me  and 
shown  me  kindness  in  recollection  of  these  adventures, 
which  surely  left  a  gentle  thought  of  their  perpetrator. 

When  I  was  once  very  much  in  need  in  New  York, 
a  man  who  had  been  one  of  the  victims  of  the  Cantell- 
abiglie hoax  insisted  that  I  should  live  on  credit  in  his 


i88  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

boarding-house  and  that  I  should  not  worry  about  my 
bill  at  his  restaurant.  More  than  that,  seeing  that  ready 
cash  was  a  scarce  commodity  with  me,  he  one  day  thrust 
some  bills  into  my  hand  for  my  father's  sake.  "He 
used  to  make  me  laugh/'  said  he,  and  tears  were  in  his 
eyes. 

Once  when  I  was  on  tour  in  a  one-night  stand,  some  of 
my  company  and  I  sought  supper  after  the  play  was 
over.  No  restaurant  was  open,  but  a  friendly  police- 
man assured  us  that  if  he  could  induce  a  certain  German 
grocer  to  open  his  store  we  might  get  some  bread  and 
cheese  and  sardines.  The  prospect  was  delicious  to 
hungry  wayfarers.  We  knocked  at  the  grocer's  door. 
Shortly,  a  head  appeared  at  the  window.  The  owner 
of  the  head  at  first  refused  to  accommodate  us,  but 
promises  of  gold  melted  his  resolve,  and  shortly  a  very 
ill-tempered  German  let  us  in.  He  lighted  a  lamp  and, 
seated  on  kegs  and  a  bench,  we  began  to  munch  our 
cheese  and  crackers  and  to  drink  cider.  One  of  my  com- 
pany, Herbert  Archer,  addressed  me  by  name. 

"What's  that  you  say?"  said  the  grocer,  pausing  in 
the  act  of  opening  sardines.  "What  name  was  that?" 

"Sothern,"  said  I,  "my  name." 

"What  Sothern?"  said  the  cheesemonger,  "not  Soth- 
ern the  actor?" 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

He  put  down  his  sardines  with  deliberation,  came 
over  to  me  and  placed  a  hand  on  each  shoulder. 

"Your  father?  "said  he. 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

"Are  you  the  son  of  old  Dundreary  Sothern?"  said 
the  grocerman. 

"Yes,"  said  I. 


from  the  collection  of  Robert  Coster,  Esq. 

LAURA    K.EENE    AS    FLORENCE    TRENCHARD 


ALL  MIRTH  AND  NO  MATTER          189 

"My  dear!"  cried  the  affectionate  Teuton,  and  threw 
his  arms  about  me.  He  called  lustily  to  his  wife:  "Gret- 
chen,"  he  cried,  "come  here!" 

A  big  woman  appeared,  angry  at  being  waked  up  at 
an  unholy  hour. 

"Come  here!"  cried  her  lord.  "This  is  the  son  of 
old  Dundreary  Sothern !  You  recall  ?  When  we  was 
young  peoples:  'Birds  of  a  feather  gather  no  moss'  — 
remember?" 

The  big  woman  burst  into  loud  laughter.  "'No  bird 
would  be  such  a  damned  fool  as  to  go  into  a  corner  and 
flock  by  himself/"  said  she,  and  they  both  shook  with 
laughter.  We  all  laughed.  What  a  change  was  there ! 
She  rummaged  her  kitchen;  she  cooked  things;  her  hus- 
band laid  a  table.  He  produced  bacon,  eggs,  sausages, 
fruit,  wine,  beer,  cigars.  For  us,  had  come  across  the 
seas  produce  from  foreign  lands;  for  us,  China,  Japan, 
the  Indies,  East  and  West,  had  sent  forth  their  argosies; 
his  shop  was  ours. 

Now  there  are,  no  doubt,  a  thousand  grocers  who 
have  the  same  loving  remembrance,  and,  since  grocers 
are  not  the  only  theatregoers,  nor  do  members  of  that 
calling  survive  to  the  extinction  of  tallow-chandlers, 
butchers,  and  bakers,  and  tinkers,  and  tailors,  this  in- 
cident persuades  me  that  a  large  part  of  the  community 
recalls  the  services  of  Dundreary  Sothern  with  the  same 
kindliness;  for  it  was  out  of  the  fulness  of  his  heart  that 
this  cheesemonger  embraced  me  and,  although  he  was 
unshaved  and  redolent  of  lamp-oil,  cheese,  sardines, 
externally,  and  of  onions,  tobacco,  and  beer  internally, 
my  soul  responded  to  his  hugs,  and  I  thought  to  myself 
that  the  memories  awakened  in  his  large  bosom  and  the 
no  less  extensive  breast  of  his  spouse  by  the  mention  of 


190  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

my  father's  name  were  not  unworthy,  and  that  there 
was  much  of  the  sunlight  and  the  joy  of  running  waters 
in  the  heart  of  the  man  who  had  inspired  them. 

It  is  something  in  a  work-a-day  world  to  make  laughter 
re-echo  through  the  years.  "This  is  a  practise  as  full 
of  labor  as  a  wise  man's  art." 


XXI 
NO  SONG,  NO  SUPPER 

I  HAVE  always  envied  those  people  who  have  the 
courage  and  the  ability  to  recite.  I  never  could  bring 
myself  to  do  it.  The  immediate  contact  with  an  au- 
dience disconcerts  me.  When  the  handsome  leading 
man  has  walked  on  at  a  benefit,  and  has  held  forth  with 
the  "Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,"  it  has  looked  so 
easy  and  has  been  so  victorious  that  I  have  hated  my- 
self for  not  being  able  to  do  likewise.  However,  I  can't, 
so  there's  an  end.  The  deficiency  is  inherited.  My 
father  never  could  or  would  recite;  he  had  a  sort  of  con- 
stitutional aversion  to  doing  so.  Perhaps  he  fancied 
people  looked  funny  when  reciting;  he  certainly  took  a 
fiendish  pleasure  in  disconcerting  reciters.  I  remember 
once  attending  a  benefit  performance  with  him  and 
Edwin  Adams  when  John  McCullough  was  to  recite. 
He  was  billed  to  declaim  a  favorite  poem  of  his,  "  Flynn 
of  Virginia."  They  say  he  was  quite  wonderful  at  it. 
On  this  occasion,  my  father  and  Adams  selected  seats 
in  the  middle  of  the  front  row  of  the  orchestra,  and  quite 
upset  the  proceedings.  The  recitation  begins  with  the 
words,  "You  knew  Flynn,  Flynn  of  Virginia?" 

Mr.  McCullough  came  on  and  was  greeted  with  great 
applause.  He  made  an  impressive  pause  and  began: 
"You  knew  Flynn,  Flynn  of  Virginia  ?" 

Ned  Adams  and  my  father  stood  up  and,  looking 
steadily  at  McCullough,  solemnly  shook  their  heads, 
as  who  should  say,  "No,  we  never  heard  of  him";  then 
they  solemnly  sat  down  again. 

191 


I92  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

McCullough  was  disconcerted  but  went  to  it  again. 
"You  knew  Flynn,  Flynn  of  Virginia?"  said  he.  Again 
the  two  solemn  figures  arose,  shook  their  heads  sadly 
and  reseated  themselves.  This  occurred  three  or  four 
times,  each  time  McCullough  finding  it  more  impossible 
to  control  his  laughter,  until  at  last  he  could  do  so  no 
longer,  and  went  off  the  stage  hysterical. 

While  my  father  was  playing  Tom  Robertson's  comedy 
of  "  David  Garrick "  in  London  during  his  first  great  suc- 
cess in  England,  he  made  an  engagement  that  when  his 
tour  should  open  at  a  certain  provincial  town  he  would 
attend  a  supper  to  be  given  by  a  militia  regiment.  The 
occasion  arrived,  and  the  supper  was  a  most  elaborate 
affair.  The  colonel  of  the  regiment  was  a  man  my  father 
knew  quite  well  in  London.  The  dinner  was  good,  the 
fun  fast  and  furious,  and  when  the  feast  was  over  stories 
and  recitations  were  in  order.  Local  talent  distinguished 
itself.  Great  was  the  applause  and  enthusiasm,  and  as 
the  night  wore  on  the  heavily  laden  table,  on  which  shone 
the  regimental  glass  and  silver,  rattled  again  and  again 
with  the  appreciation  of  the  crowd.  At  last  my  father 
was  called  upon  for  a  recitation.  He  protested  that  he 
never  had  been  able  to  recite;  explained  his  actual  in- 
ability to  do  so,  that  he  never  had  done  such  a  thing, 
and  knew  nothing  to  recite.  No  one  seemed  to  believe 
him.  Shouts  of  "Oh,  you  must!"  "Come  on,  now!" 
and  much  uproar  and  persistence  ensued.  Again  and 
again  my  father  declared  he  would  if  he  could,  but  that 
he  was  utterly  unable  to  oblige  his  hosts.  He  professed 
his  sincere  wish  to  do  anything  to  add  to  the  entertain- 
ment of  the  night,  but  regretted  that  he  had  this  peculiar 
incapacity.  Men  gradually  became  emphatic,  and  more 
or  less  ungracious  remarks  could  be  heard  among  the 


From  a  photograph  by  Sarony  in  the  collection  of  Evert  Jansen  Wendell,  Esq. 

EDWARD    A.    SOTHERN    AS    DAVID    GARRICK 


NO  SONG,  NO  SUPPER  193 

din,  some  unruly  spirits  rather  rudely  declaring  their  re- 
sentment and  disgust.  The  situation  became  quite  em- 
barrassing and  distasteful.  At  last  a  climax  was  reached 
when  one  man,  more  flushed  and  uproarious  than  the 
rest,  cried  out:  "Oh,  come,  I  say,  you  must  pay  for  your 
supper !" 

My  father  got  up  with  sudden  resolve.  Said  he:  "All 
right,  I'll  pay." 

Much  acclaim  followed,  although  the  colonel  and  some 
others  seemed  to  deprecate  the  general  attitude. 

Said  my  father:  "I'll  pay  for  my  supper,  but,"  he 
continued,  "I  can't  recite  in  the  usual  way;  all  I  can  do 
is  to  give  a  scene  from  one  of  my  plays." 

"Good!"  "That'll  do!"  "First-rate!"  sang  out  the 
voices. 

"I'll  give  you  the  drunken  scene  in  ' David  Garrick/" 
said  my  father;  "but  I  must  tell  you  that  I  can't  be  re- 
sponsible when  I  am  acting;  I  get  carried  away  completely 
and  anything  may  happen.  You  may  remember,"  he 
went  on,  "that  Garrick  comes  to  the  house  of  a  common, 
ill-bred,  vulgar  city  man,  where  he  meets  a  crowd  of  com- 
mon, ill-bred,  vulgar  guests;  they  cry  out  to  him  to  act, 
and  he  does  act,  indeed,  but  not  as  they  anticipate.  He 
pretends  to  be  drunk  in  order  to  disgust  the  heroine,  who 
has  fallen  in  love  with  his  playing.  He  does  disgust  her. 
She  is  broken-hearted  to  think  that  this  drunken  fellow 
is  the  man  who  has  enchanted  her  with  his  performance 
of  Hamlet,  and  Lear,  and  Macbeth.  He  is  broken- 
hearted that  he  has  had  to  do  what  he  has  done — shatter 
her  idol,  himself.  He  is  about  to  leave  the  room  when 
the  common,  ill-bred,  vulgar  crowd  cry:  'Turn  him  out!' 
'  Kick  him  out ! '  Then  he  turns  on  them  in  fury  like 
this,  as  I  do  now,"  and  my  father  turned,  as  indeed  he 


i94  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

does  in  the  play,  and  the  lines  of  Coriolanus  which  Gar- 
rick  speaks  in  the  scene  came  from  his  lips  red-hot. 
Cried  he: 

You  common  cry  of  curs!  whose  breath  I  hate 
As  reek  of  the  rotten  fens,  whose  loves  I  prize 
As  the  dead  carcasses  of  unburied  men 
That  do  corrupt  my  air  I     I  banish  you ! 
And  here  remain  with  your  uncertainty  1 
Let  every  feeble  rumor  shake  your  hearts ! 
Your  enemies  with  nodding  of  their  plumes 

Fan  you  into  despair ! 

Despising, 

For  you,  the  city.     Thus  I  turn  my  back, 
There  is  a  world  elsewhere. 

Here  the  business  of  the  play  is  that  Garrick  seizes  the 
curtains  of  the  opening  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  tears 
them  down  in  his  frenzy,  and  wraps  them  around  him  as 
he  rushes  out. 

When  my  father  had  delivered  the  speech  with  great 
force,  he  seized  the  corner  of  the  table-cloth  and  wrapped 
it  about  his  body  as  he  twisted  round  and  round  on  his 
way  to  the  door.  Crash  came  all  the  plate  and  glass  and 
silver  from  the  table.  All  the  men  jumped  to  their  feet, 
as  with  his  final  words  my  father  rushed  from  the  room. 

There  was  a  pause,  breathless;  then  he  returned. 
"Dear  me !"  said  he,  "what  a  mess  !  I  fear  I  was  carried 
away.  I  was  afraid  it  would  be  so,  but  one  must  pay 
for  one's  supper." 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  this  incident  was  not  acclaimed 
with  transports  of  delight.  Never  had  that  scene  been 
played  to  so  unresponsive  an  audience. 

The  colonel  conducted  my  father  to  his  carriage  and 
assured  him  that  he  had  taught  the  younger  men  a  lesson 


NO  SONG,  NO  SUPPER  195 

they  were  not  likely  to  forget.  Subsequently  this  same 
colonel,  and  indeed  many  of  the  others  present,  became 
my  father's  fast  friends.  The  matter,  however,  was  made 
public,  and  my  father  was  not  asked  to  recite  again. 

To  recite  requires  a  peculiar  kind  of  audacity.  A 
great  many  persons  possess  this  temerity  who  are  quite 
incapable  of  acting  in  the  sense  of  impersonating.  The 
ability  to  read  is  different  and  apart  from  the  quality 
necessary  for  acting.  I  have  seen  excellent  readers  fail 
utterly  as  actors;  equally  there  are  good  actors  who  do  not 
read  well.  The  reciters  are  usually  rather  severe  critics 
of  acting,  and  know  just  how  the  job  ought  to  be  done. 

My  father  was  a  most  generous  and  kindly  critic,  who 
would  take  infinite  pains  to  assist  and  instruct  beginners. 
In  my  own  case,  however,  he  began  by  being  most  severe. 
It  was  in  this  same  play  of  "David  Garrick"  that  I  had 
my  first  lesson  in  acting  with  him.  I  had  to  impersonate 
the  servant  who  announces  the  guests  at  the  house  of 
Simon  Ingot,  the  old  merchant.  I  had  to  precede  each 
guest  on  to  the  stage,  stand  in  the  centre  of  the  doors  at 
the  back,  and  cry  in  a  loud  voice:  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith.'* 
"Mr.  Jones."  "Miss  Araminta  Brown,"  and  so  on. 
At  the  first  rehearsal  I  said:  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith"  in  a 
bashful  and  very  self-conscious  manner.  My  father  told 
me  to  speak  louder.  I  tried  again,  but  was  more  nervous 
and  conscious  than  before. 

"It  won't  do  at  all,"  said  my  father,  who  had  done  his 
utmost  to  dissuade  me  from  entering  on  the  career  of 
acting.  "I  will  go  to  the  back  of  the  auditorium  and 
you  must  shout  it  at  me  like  this,"  and  he  showed  me  how 
the  announcement  should  be  delivered.  By  this  time  all 
the  company  were  observing  me  with  looks  of  mingled 
pity  and  contempt,  I  thought.  I  tried  several  times  to 


196  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

cry  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith,"  knowing  quite  well  that  it 
was  all  wrong,  and  quite  annihilated  to  discover  that  so 
simple  a  duty  was  fraught  with  so  much  danger  and  diffi- 
culty. My  father,  distinctly  impatient  now,  called  loud 
directions  from  the  back  of  the  theatre.  But  it  was  use- 
less, I  became  worse  and  worse.  Then  he  came  forward 
to  the  centre  of  the  house  and  said:  "It's  no  use;  you'd 
better  give  up  the  stage." 

As  I  had  not  yet  entered  upon  my  coveted  career,  this 
advice  seemed  premature,  and  for  that  day  I  retired 
crestfallen  and  defeated.  Shortly,  while  I  was  contem- 
plating suicide  in  the  dressing-room  next  to  my  father's, 
I  heard  him  discussing  the  incident  with  his  manager, 
Horace  Wall.  "No,"  said  Wall,  "he  won't  do.  Eddy 
has  not  the  mouth  for  an  orator." 

I  looked  in  the  looking-glass  at  my  mouth.  It  did  seem 
rather  weak  and  small,  and  I  wondered  if  it  could  be  al- 
tered, as  I  understood  from  advertisements  that  they 
altered  people's  noses.  But  these  reflections  brought 
neither  comfort  nor  encouragement.  However  I  labored 
over  the  announcements,  and  was  heard  when  the  time 
came  to  speak  them. 

Long  afterward  in  Greenock,  a  seaport  in  Scotland,  I 
was  to  portray  Squire  Chivey  in  this  same  comedy  when 
my  brother  Lytton  played  David  Garrick.  I  went  into 
a  barber's  shop  to  get  my  hair  cut.  In  the  next  chair  to 
me  was  a  seafaring  man  who  resembled  a  pirate  from  the 
Spanish  Main.  He  had  the  olive  complexion  of  the 
story-books,  earrings  in  his  ears,  a  reckless  air,  and  one 
suspected  stilettos  and  pistols  all  over  him.  He  ad- 
dressed me  and  a  conversation  ensued.  He  announced 
his  intention  of  visiting  the  theatre,  and  I  incautiously 
mentioned  that  I  was  acting  in  the  play. 


NO  SONG,  NO  SUPPER  197 

"Ha,  ha!"  cried  the  pirate.  "What  do  you  play?" 
I  told  him.  "I  will  be  there,"  said  he,  "and  cry  'Bravo ! 
Bravissimo!" 

He  departed  and  I  shortly  forgot  his  existence.  When 
I  came  on  at  night,  however,  I  beheld  the  sea-rover  rise 
in  his  place  and  bring  his  great  hands  together  like  claps 
of  thunder.  "Bravo!  Bravissimo!"  yelled  he.  Neither 
my  position  nor  my  part  demanded  enthusiasm,  and 
there  was  a  general  "Hush!"  "Sit  down!"  "Turn  him 
out!"  from  the  audience. 

"Bravo!  Bravissimo!"  howled  my  friend  of  the  bar- 
bershop. 

"Shut  up!"  came  from  the  gallery. 

Two  ushers  approached  and  whispered  counsel  into 
the  earringed  ears. 

"Abaft  there!"  cried  the  pirate.  "Bravo!  Bravis- 
simo!" 

Our  manager  intervened.  Many  men  arose,  a  gen- 
eral murmur  of  "Drunk!"  "Kick  him  out!"  "Turn 
him  out!"  came  from  all  parts  of  the  house.  A  police- 
man floated  down  the  aisle  and  seized  my  admirer.  A 
free  fight  ensued,  all  the  arts  of  marine  warfare  came  into 
play  against  these  land  forces.  Twenty  men  joined  in 
the  fray. 

"Bravo !  Bravissimo !"  yelled  my  friend  as  he  emerged 
victorious  for  a  moment,  only  to  be  submerged  again. 
Conquered,  overwhelmed  by  numbers,  he  was  dragged 
away,  and  in  the  far  distance  I  still  heard  him  cry: 
"Bravo!  Bravissimo!"  I  have  never,  alas!  evoked 
such  enthusiasm  since.  Many  tender  memories  cluster 
about  this  play  of  "David  Garrick."  I  remember  my 
father's  preparations  for  the  very  first  performance: 
the  constant  care  with  which  he  approached  each  and 


i98  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

every  representation  of  this  character;  the  loving  labor 
he  expended  on  every  detail;  his  extreme  anxiety  on 
first  nights  in  new  cities  lest  he  should  fall  by  chance 
below  his  own  high  standard.  As  a  child  I  recall  how 
puzzled  I  was  when  he  had  shaved  off  his  heavy  mus- 
tache to  fit  the  fashion  of  the  time.  I  now  possess  the 
sketch  for  his  make-up  executed  by  W.  P.  Frith,  the 
Royal  Academician,  and  the  shoe-buckles  which  be- 
longed to  the  real  David  Garrick,  and  which  my  father 
always  wore.  The  simplicity,  pathos,  and  repose  of  his 
portrayal  made  a  strong  impression  upon  me  as  a  child. 
The  superb  art  of  it  has  become  manifest  to  me  in  the 
light  of  my  own  endeavors  of  after  years.  One  of  the 
chiefest  joys  of  the  craftsman  is  to  learn  to  see  with 
clear  eyes  the  masters  of  his  craft. 


XXII 
"THE  CRUSHED  TRAGEDIAN " 

ONE  night  during  the  summer  of  1875,  in  company 
with  my  father  and  his  manager,  Horace  Wall,  I  at- 
tended the  walking  contest  at  the  old  Madison  Square 
Garden.  Edward  Payson  Weston  was  the  attraction, 
and  a  great  crowd  cheered  him  on.  My  father  was 
shortly  to  produce  Henry  J.  Byron's  comedy,  "The 
Prompter's  Box,"  which  he  had  rechristened,  "The 
Crushed  Tragedian."  The  type  of  old  actor  he  wished 
to  portray  he  was  well  acquainted  with,  for  he  had  en- 
countered many  such  a  quaint  genius  during  his  early 
experiences  in  England.  He  had  not,  however,  de- 
termined on  the  exact  make-up  for  his  part,  and  his 
mind  was  busy  trying  to  reduce  the  features  and  the 
peculiarities  of  his  various  models  to  a  single  type — a 
sort  of  composite  picture.  Suddenly,  on  this  evening, 
he  stopped  short  in  his  talk  with  Horace  Wall  and  said: 
"Look,  there  is  the  crushed  tragedian." 

"Where?"  said  Wall. 

My  father  pointed  to  a  man  twenty  feet  away.  "It 
is  Fitzaltamont  himself,"  said  he. 

"That  is  the  Count  Johannes,"  replied  Wall,  and  he 
proceeded  to  explain  that  Johannes,  who  was  truly  no 
count  but  one  plain  unvarnished  Jones,  had  of  late 
exploited  himself  in  Shakespeare's  tragedies  to  the  vast 
delight  of  persons  given  to  the  hurling  of  missiles,  and 

that  it  was  the  custom  of  the  "count"  to  perform  behind 

199 


200  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

a  huge  net  which  was  stretched  between  himself  and  his 
admirers  so  that  their  hysterical  tributes  of  eggs,  potatoes, 
and  other  edibles  might  be  received  (if  in  discussing  the 
conflict  between  genius  and  enthusiasm  one  may  employ 
the  language  of  the  ring)  without  Hamlet's  melancholy 
being  enhanced  by  a  black  eye,  Othello's  revenge  impeded 
by  the  tapping  of  his  claret,  or  Macbeth's  apostrophe  to 
the  bloody  dagger  interrupted  by  a  blow  on  the  bread- 
basket. 

Then  and  there  my  father  decided  that  here  was  the 
very  type  for  which  he  had  been  seeking.  We  followed 
Count  Johannes  about  the  Garden  for  an  hour,  my  father 
noting  his  manner,  his  gesture,  his  poses.  So  well  did 
he  absorb  the  man-of-title's  peculiar  graces  that,  when 
a  few  months  later  "The  Crushed  Tragedian"  had  won 
the  favor  of  the  town,  that  nobleman  became  so  incensed 
at  the  portraiture  that,  to  my  father's  great  delight  and 
the  mirth  of  the  community,  he  instituted  an  action  for 
libel. 

Meanwhile,  having,  so  to  speak,  anchored  his  type 
on  this  visit  to  the  Garden,  my  father  next  gave  his 
attention  to  the  matter  of  costume. 

During  the  early  part  of  the  play  De  Lacy  Fitzalta- 
mont  is  a  very  seedy  individual  indeed,  and  it  was  nec- 
essary to  provide  garments  which  should  indicate  his 
condition.  My  father  was  considering  this  matter  when 
one  day  he  walked  across  Madison  Square  with  Mr. 
Wall.  The  benches  were,  as  usual,  tenanted  by  many 
a  woebegone  fellow  at  odds  with  fortune.  One  man 
especially  attracted  my  father's  attention,  for  he  was 
walking  up  and  down  rather  rapidly  within  a  very  small 
space.  The  weather  was  hot  and  movement  to  be  avoided, 
yet  this  man,  like  a  caged  thing,  paced  back  and  forth. 


"THE  CRUSHED  TRAGEDIAN"          201 

"That's  the  very  suit  of  clothes  I  want,"  said  my 
father  to  Wall.  "You  must  start  a  conversation  with 
that  man  and  get  those  things — coat,  vest,  trousers, 
hat,  neck-cloth,  shoes,  everything!  Buy  him  an  en- 
tirely new  outfit,  and  have  those  things  sent  to  me," 
and  he  passed  on,  leaving  Wall  to  his  novel  task. 

"Hot,  isn't  it?"  said  Wall  to  the  stranger. 

The  man  paused  in  his  walk  and  gazed  at  Wall. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  God  ? "  said  he. 

This  was  unexpected. 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly!"  said  Wall,  a  trifle  disconcerted. 
"Have  a  cigar?"  and  he  proffered  one  to  the  man. 

"No,  no!"  said  the  shabby  one,  and  he  laid  his  hand 
on  Wall's  shoulder.  "No,  no!  Tell  me,"  said  he,  "do 
you  think  I  shall  be  saved  ?" 

"Why  shouldn't  you  be?"  said  Wall. 

"Why  should  I  be?"  said  the  man.  "But  there  are 
many  mansions,  many  mansions." 

"Let  us  sit  down  and  talk  it  over,"  said  Wall. 

"No,  no!"  said  the  man.    "I'm  an  old  soldier." 

"Well,  even  so,"  said  Wall.  "You  sit  down  occa- 
sionally, don't  you  ? " 

"Never  in  face  of  the  foe,"  said  the  man. 

Wall  began  to  feel  uneasy. 

"What  foe?"  said  he. 

"The  devil  and  all  his  works,"  said  the  man. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Wall,  "we'd  better  get 
something  to  eat." 

"They  shall  eat  their  bread  with  carefulness,  and  drink 
their  water  with  astonishment,"  said  the  man. 

"How  would  you  like  a  new  suit  of  clothes?"  said 
Wall,  feeling  that  he  had  better  get  at  the  heart  of  the 
matter. 


202  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Said  the  man:  "I  clothed  thee  also  with  broidered 
work,  and  shod  thee  with  badger's  skin,  and  I  girded 
thee  about  with  fine  linen,  and  I  covered  thee  with 
silk/' 

"Well  hardly  that,"  said  Wall.  "I  mean  just  a  plain, 
nice,  new  suit  of  clothes." 

Said  the  man:  "I  decked  thee  also  with  ornaments, 
and  I  put  bracelets  upon  thy  hands  and  a  chain  on  thy 
neck." 

"That  is  not  quite  what  I  mean,"  said  Wall.  "The 
fact  is " 

"And  I  put  a  jewel  on  thy  forehead  and  earrings  in 
thine  ears,  and  a  beautiful  crown  upon  thine  head," 
said  the  man. 

Wall  perceived  that  he  was  dealing  with  a  being  dis- 
tracted. But  his  experience  assured  him  that  a  five- 
dollar  bill  was  an  excellent  argument,  so  he  produced 
one  and  offered  it  to  his  new  acquaintance. 

The  stranger  tore  the  bill  in  two,  flung  it  in  the  air 
and  cried:  "Neither  their  silver  nor  their  gold  shall  be 
able  to  deliver  them  in  the  day  of  the  Lord's  wrath." 

The  weary  derelicts  of  the  surrounding  benches  began 
to  sit  up  and  listen.  A  number  of  children  approached 
curiously. 

"What  shall  I  do  to  be  saved  ?"  said  the  man. 

"I  advise  you  to  eat  a  large  plate  of  clam  chowder," 
said  Wall,  and  taking  his  new  friend  by  the  arm  he  gen- 
tly urged  him  toward  Fourth  Avenue. 

Without  more  words  they  reached  the  Ashland  House 
where  Wall  resided.  Here  they  entered  the  barber- 
shop. 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  the  head  barber. 

"What  shall  I  do  to  be  saved?"  said  the  wayfarer. 


E.    A.    SOTHERN    AS    THE    CRUSHED    TRAGEDIAN 


"THE  CRUSHED  TRAGEDIAN"          203 

"He'll  take  a  bath,"  said  Wall.  "Cleanliness  is  next 
to  godliness,"  said  he  to  the  man. 

"Then  there  is  hope,"  said  the  man. 

"In  soap,"  said  Wall. 

With  the  aid  of  the  colored  bootblack  the  distracted 
one  disrobed  and  was  soon  in  hot  water — a  condition 
wherewith  he  was  sadly  familiar,  but  an  element  to  which 
he  had  long  been  a  stranger. 

"Clothes  brushed?  Shoes  shined?"  said  the  colored 
boy. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Wall.  "Take  the  gentleman's  ward- 
robe." 

The  various  tattered  garments  were  gathered  together 
and,  under  Wall's  instructions,  carefully  placed  in  seclu- 
sion. Then,  as  swiftly  as  his  somewhat  large  bulk  would 
permit,  Wall  hied  him  to  a  ready-made  clothier,  where 
he  purchased  an  entire  outfit  for  the  man  in  the  tub. 

The  hot  water  had  had  a  soothing  effect  upon  that 
eccentric  stranger,  for  the  colored  boy  reported  that  he 
had  been  singing  softly  to  himself.  Shortly  he  called 
for  salvation,  and  the  colored  boy  and  Wall  assisted  him 
to  dry  and  to  dress. 

He  emerged  quite  unconscious  of  his  changed  attire, 
and  approaching  the  head  barber  remarked:  "What 
shall  I  do  to  be  saved  ?" 

"Shave,"  said  that  artist.    "Shave  and  hair-cut!" 

"That's  right,"  said  Wall,  "fix  him  up." 

Quite  unresisting,  the  stranger  was  placed  in  the 
chair,  and  singing  softly  angelic  music  he  was  scraped 
and  cropped  and  polished,  and  at  length  arose  a  cleaner 
and  evidently  a  wiser  man,  for  he  now  said  to  Wall: 

"I'm  hungry." 

"Good!"  said  that  philanthropist,  and  led  the  way  to 


204  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

the  restaurant.  Here  he  plied  his  guest  with  excellent 
fare,  meanwhile  keeping  up  a  cheerful  chatter. 

The  late  tatterdemalion,  who  now  looked  like  a  pros- 
perous business  man,  well-dressed,  well-groomed,  well- 
mannered,  and,  indeed,  well-spoken,  evinced  a  fine 
appetite.  He  made  few  remarks,  but  Wall  observed 
that  the  more  he  ate  the  saner  he  seemed  to  become. 
A  little  while  and  his  eyes  began  to  close;  shortly  he  was 
fast  asleep. 

"Put  him  to  bed,"  said  Wall,  and  the  fortunate  waif 
was  half-led  half-carried  to  a  bed-chamber.  There,  for 
a  day  and  a  night,  he  slept,  and  when  Wall  next  en- 
countered him  he  was  a  sane  man. 

For  two  days  Wall  took  care  of  him,  and  then  with 
a  present  of  money  sent  him  on  his  way. 

"This  is  a  loan,"  said  the  man.  "I  will  pay  this 
back." 

"Don't  think  of  it,"  said  Wall.  "I  have  your  clothes, 
you  know.  They  are  worth  the  money." 

"You're  a  queer  fellow,"  said  the  stranger,  "a  very 
queer  fellow.  I  have  thought  sometimes  that  you  are 
a  little  mad." 

Two  years  after  this  adventure  Wall  was  taking  the 
tickets  at  the  entrance  of  McVicker's  Theatre  in  Chicago. 
A  man  approached  with  a  gayly  dressed  party  and  pre- 
sented tickets  for  a  box.  As  Wall  reached  for  the  tickets 
his  eyes  met  those  of  the  man. 

"What  shall  I  do  to  be  saved?"  said  Wall. 

"I  advise  you  to  eat  some  clam-chowder,"  said  the 
man. 

"Then,  there  is  hope?"  said  Wall.' 

"In  soap,"  said  the  man. 

"Here's  the  money  you  lent  me,"  said  the  man. 


"THE  CRUSHED  TRAGEDIAN"          205 

"You'll  find  the  suit  of  clothes  on  the  stage,"  said 
Wall. 

The  man  looked  puzzled,  but  he  entered  with  his  party. 
After  the  first  act  he  came  out.  Said  he  to  Wall:  "Soth- 
ern's  wearing  my  clothes  in  this  play." 

"Certainly  he  is,"  said  Wall,  and  then  he  told  the 
whole  story. 

Then  the  man  added  a  prologue,  and  an  epilogue  most 
marvellous.  Want  had  driven  him  to  the  verge  of  in- 
sanity. He  had  but  the  faintest  recollection  of  his  first 
meeting  with  Wall.  His  first  clear  remembrance  of  that 
adventure  was  of  waking  up  in  a  clean  bed  in  the  Ash- 
land House  after  many  nights  spent  on  park  benches. 
Then  for  the  first  time  he  wondered  to  see  himself  ar- 
rayed in  new  and  strange  garments.  In  a  sort  of  dream 
he  accepted  all  that  happened,  even  to  the  moment 
when  he  finally  parted  from  Wall.  Then  he  had  taken  a 
walk  to  think  the  thing  out,  but  found  no  solution  save 
in  Wall  being  some  kind  of  an  angel.  He  had  answered 
an  advertisement,  and  had  secured  work  chiefly,  he  de- 
clared, on  account  of  his  clothes,  for  his  discarded  rags 
had  barred  him  from  most  employment.  He  had  pros- 
pered, had  settled  in  Chicago,  and  was  now  well  on  the 
way  to  fortune. 

"Then  you  are  not  a  philanthropist,  after  all?"  said 
the  man. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Wall. 

"Nor  a  good  angel." 

"I  weigh  two  hundred  pounds,"  said  Wall. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  the  man,  "that  I  owe 
my  regeneration  entirely  to  the  fact  that  you  wanted  those 
old  rags  of  mine?" 

"I  must  confess  that  is  the  fact,"  said  Wall. 


206  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"If  you  had  not  wanted  them  I  should  now  be  in  a 
padded  cell,"  said  the  man. 

"You  were  certainly  a  bit  flighty,"  admitted  Wall. 

"We  are  the  playthings  of  the  gods,"  said  the  man 
as  he  returned  to  his  seat  in  the  theatre. 

After  the  play  he  was  presented  to  my  father  who  in- 
quired with  much  sympathy  concerning  his  fortunes  in 
the  hope  of  being  of  some  further  assistance. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  the  man.  "I  am  much 
touched  by  your  interest.  Perhaps,"  said  he,  fingering 
those  ragged  garments  which  had  once  been  his  and 
which  were  now  hanging  on  the  wall  of  the  dressing- 
room,  "perhaps  you,  too,  have  known  poverty?" 

"I  have  stood  in  your  shoes,"  said  my  father. 


PART  IV 

MYSELF 


XXIII 
MONSIEUR  LA  TAPPY 

"No,  gentleman!"  would  say  Monsieur  La  Tappy 
when  he  disagreed  with  me,  meaning  "No,  sir,"  trans- 
lating literally,  for  Monsieur  La  Tappy  was  my  French 
tutor.  "No,  gentleman!"  cried  Monsieur  La  Tappy 
on  this  particular  occasion.  "Pour  moi  il  n'y  a  pas  de 
dieu."  I  was  a  boy  of  fourteen;  for  me  there  was  very 
much  of  a  God.  I  was  still  fresh  from  school  and  green 
in  religious  observances.  I  could,  however,  quite  sym- 
pathize with  Monsieur  La  Tappy's  doubts,  or  rather 
convictions.  Fate  had  dealt  him  some  fearful  blows. 
The  events  of  1870  had  ruined  him.  A  refugee,  he  had 
fled  from  France  with  his  young  wife  and  a  son  and 
daughter,  penniless.  He  had  taught  French  and  music 
for  a  living.  He  was  now  about  fifty  years  of  age,  worn 
to  a  shadow,  thin  as  a  skeleton,  want  and  ill  health  prey- 
ing on  his  vitals;  but  whenever  he  came  to  give  me  my 
lesson,  he  would  assume  a  gayety  that  was  pitiful,  throw- 
ing off  the  wretchedness  that  was  gnawing  forever  at 
his  heart  and  plunging  into  the  brightest  and  most  rapid 
of  conversation. 

I  was  attending  a  school  of  painting  at  this  time — 
Heatherly's,  in  Newman  Street,  London,  formerly  Leigh's 
Academy,  a  famous  institution  for  those  who  wished  to 
send  drawings  of  the  antique  for  admission  to  the  Royal 
Academy  schools.  It  was  my  custom  to  attend  Heath- 
erly's each  day  from  nine  until  four;  then  I  would  go  to 

209 


210  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

a  room  I  had  rented  off  Golden  Square,  the  haunt  of 
wandering  minstrels,  pathetic  ballad-singers,  and  dilapi- 
dated fiddlers.  Indeed,  I  held  out  in  a  musical  neigh- 
borhood, for  in  the  room  below  me  had  lived  until  lately 
a  long-haired  fiddler  who  would  have  delighted  the  heart 
of  old  King  Cole  himself.  London  had  proved  for  him 
a  hard  mistress,  and  he  had  faded  away  into  a  better 
world.  Every  afternoon  Monsieur  La  Tappy  would 
come  and  talk  French  with  me — we  merely  talked,  on 
any  subject — to  the  accompaniment  of  sweet  music  from 
my  friend  the  violinist  or  the  street  singers.  We  would 
have  tea  and  such  confections  as  my  mother  would  send 
me  from  her  home  in  Kensington,  for  I  did  not  live  in 
this  room — our  home  was  too  far  away,  and  I  had  this 
place  as  a  sort  of  modest  studio  and  for  the  purpose  of 
these  conversations.  In  the  evening  I  attended  the  life 
class  at  Heatherly's  from  six  to  eight,  and  then  went 
back  to  Kensington.  On  three  mornings  of  each  week, 
however,  I  studied  water-color  with  Mr.  John  O'Connor, 
who,  until  recently,  had  been  the  scene-painter  of  the 
Haymarket  Theatre.  I  began  operations  with  O'Con- 
nor on  the  paint-frame.  He  was  preparing  the  scenery 
for  Adelaide  Neilson's  performance  of  "Twelfth  Night." 
A  strange  and  fascinating  world  I  was  introduced  to, 
and  some  strange  and  fascinating  people  did  I  meet. 
O'Connor  himself  was  a  most  nervous  and  enthusiastic 
fellow,  who  worked  like  a  horse.  Anybody  who  thinks 
scene-painting  is  easy  labor  is  vastly  mistaken;  the  mere 
physical  strain  is  tremendous,  the  requisite  skill  and  in- 
vention endless.  The  rewards  are  not  great,  and  the 
work  itself,  exquisite  as  much  of  it  is,  passes  as  the  winds 
that  blow.  No  wonder,  thought  I,  that  O'Connor  wants 
to  give  this  up  and  confine  himself  to  painting  pictures 


W 

o  z 


w 


BJ    O 

w  ._ 
K   * 


MONSIEUR  LA  TAPPY  211 

in  his  own  studio.  This  he  shortly  did,  and  with  him 
went  I — to  Abercorn  Place,  Saint  John's  Wood.  Shortly 
we  took  a  trip  to  Spain,  where  O'Connor  made  a  great 
number  of  drawings,  and  I  tried  to  do  likewise.  It  was 
all  delightful.  I  endeavored  to  be  useful  with  my  French, 
but  it  halted  somewhat,  and  O'Connor  would  become  im- 
patient and  yell  at  the  natives  in  English.  He  declared 
that  if  one  only  shouted  loud  enough  and  made  plenty 
of  gesture,  all  foreigners  would  understand. 

La  Tappy  was  familiar  with  paintings,  ancient  and 
modern;  with  literature,  French  and  English,  and  with 
the  drama;  so  our  talks  were  instructive.  He  had 
travelled  a  great  deal,  and  my  Spanish  trip  provided 
material  for  many  a  conversation.  La  Tappy  painted  a 
bit,  and  could  take  interest  in  my  efforts  in  that  direction. 
He  taught  the  piano,  but  his  poor  fingers  were  so  swollen 
with  chilblains — the  fruit  of  the  severe  English  climate 
— that  he  was  forever  exercising  his  fingers  to  keep  them 
limber  and  in  working  order.  "II  faut  jouer  mon  piano," 
he  would  say,  playing  five-finger  exercises  in  the  air  while 
he  talked  gayly  on  some  subject  or  another.  He  had  a 
strange  habit  of  suddenly  shutting  his  eyes  very  tight, 
and  then  opening  them  very  wide.  I  think  it  was  be- 
cause he  was  tired.  It  was  a  spasmodic  action  that  was 
half-comic,  half-startling.  He  wore  long  side-whiskers, 
but  no  mustache.  His  clothes  were  quite  threadbare. 
La  Tappy  always  seemed  cold.  I  used  to  observe  him 
approaching  my  abode;  usually  it  was  raining.  He  would 
appear  at  the  end  of  the  street  with  his  umbrella.  He 
used  to  walk  from  one  lesson  to  another,  to  save  bus  fare; 
the  man  was  abjectly  poor,  but  proud.  Frequently  I 
would  try  to  persuade  him  to  share  the  sort  of  picnic 
meal  I  would  have.  Not  a  bit  of  it;  a  cup  of  tea,  no 


212  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

more,  and  I  knew  he  was  hungry.  When  he  got  to  my 
door,  he  would  pull  himself  together,  throw  his  shoulders 
back,  actually  run  up  the  stairs  and  knock  with  much 
briskness  on  the  door.  Off,  in  a  flash,  his  coat;  down, 
with  a  dash,  his  hat;  gay  as  could  be  was  he,  smacking 
his  hands,  volatile  as  a  glass  of  champagne.  Then  would 
ensue  a  lively  conversation.  La  Tappy  you  see  was 
doing  his  duty;  this  was  a  lesson.  My  heart  ached 
sometimes,  for  I  knew  that  his  was  heavy;  only  now  and 
then  would  he  allow  the  mask  to  fall  away,  and  then  for 
a  moment  his  face  was  really  one  of  agony.  The  lesson 
over,  he  would  fling  out  of  the  room  and  skip  down  the 
stairs,  singing  or  whistling.  Once  in  the  street,  I  would 
see  his  shoulders  drop  and  his  soul  droop.  "Pour  moi 
il  n'y  a  pas  de  dieu!"  Indeed,  God-forsaken  did  he 
look. 

One  day  it  was  raining  dogs  and  cats,  and  I  was  late 
getting  to  my  room.  It  was  foggy,  too;  a  yellow,  beastly 
fog.  La  Tappy  was  always  on  time  to  the  instant.  The 
woman  who  looked  after  the  house  always  made  my  fire 
at  four  o'clock  and  put  a  kettle  on  to  boil;  I  made  my 
own  tea.  I  felt  sure  La  Tappy  would  be  waiting,  and 
I  had  hurried  through  the  wet  street.  As  I  opened  the 
hall  door  the  interior  of  the  ancient  house  was  sombre 
and  mysterious  in  the  gloom  of  a  London  afternoon. 
As  I  passed  in  the  darkness  my  lost  musician's  door,  in 
imagination  I  seemed  to  hear  him  still  wooing  his  violin. 
I  felt  my  way  to  my  own  room  quite  unable  to  divest 
my  mind  of  the  accustomed  strains.  The  music  seemed 
to  keep  time  to  the  dripping  of  the  rain.  My  room  was 
empty.  I  threw  myself  into  a  chair.  The  theme  of  the 
musician  haunted  me;  my  brain  echoed  it,  my  heart 
beat  to  it,  my  lips  murmured  it.  Was  he  trying  to  reach 


MONSIEUR  LA  TAPPY  213 

me  from  some  remote  sphere?  Was  he — was  he?  I 
must  have  slept.  There  was  La  Tappy !  with  his  back 
to  me  looking  out  at  the  window.  As  he  turned  I  felt 
a  curious  shiver  go  through  me.  I  took  off  my  coat 
which  was  wet  (why  had  I  kept  it  on  all  this  while  ?) 
and  greeting  La  Tappy  I  went  to  the  fire.  I  busied 
myself  with  the  tea,  and  La  Tappy  began  to  work  his 
fingers  in  the  air,  saying:  "Je  joue  mon  piano."  I 
laughed  and  we  talked  as  usual  about  all  sorts  of  mat- 
ters. When  I  was  at  a  loss  for  a  word  he  would 
supply  it,  and  if  I  did  not  understand  what  he  said 
he  would  repeat  the  word  slowly  until  I  did  understand, 
or  he  would  tell  me  what  the  strange  word  meant.  He 
was  in  his  usual  gay  spirits;  he  drank  his  tea  with  relish. 
I  was,  myself,  especially  talkative.  A  funny  thing  had 
happened  at  Heatherly's.  I  had  been  a  very  silent  stu- 
dent during  the  months  I  had  been  there,  and  had  made 
few  acquaintances;  those  around  me  were  all  voluble 
fellows,  but  I  had  kept  very  much  to  myself,  really  more 
from  shyness  than  from  churlishness.  My  easel  was 
next  to  a  stove  which  was  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  It 
was  my  habit,  of  which  I  was  unconscious,  I  think,  to 
rest  my  left  hand  on  this  stove  occasionally  while  I  was 
using  the  crayon  with  my  right.  This  day  a  fire  had  been 
lighted  in  the  stove.  I  placed  my  easel  and  at  once 
rested  my  hand  on  the  stove,  and  let  out  a  most  pro- 
nounced "Damn !"  This  was  the  first  word  I  had  spoken 
in  that  school,  and  was  the  means  of  making  me  many 
friends  instantly.  I  told  this  incident  to  La  Tappy. 
He  laughed  gayly;  he  made  that  curious  action  of  shutting 
his  eyes  tight  and  then  opening  them  widely;  he  played 
his  five-finger  exercises  in  the  air;  he  drank  his  tea.  We 
talked  of  Spain:  of  the  Alhambra  Palace,  which  I  had  so 


214  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

recently  visited ;  of  moonlight  in  the  Court  of  the  Lions, 
where  a  pretty  Spanish  lady  had  played  on  the  guitar 
and  had  sung.  La  Tappy  had  been  there,  had  sung  there 
on  that  very  spot.  We  talked  of  the  processions  through 
the  streets.  I  told  him  about  a  murder  I  had  witnessed 
as  I  sat  on  a  bridge  over  the  Duero  sketching.  Some 
students,  in  those  curious  Spanish  cloaks  lined  with  red, 
had  come  out  of  a  wine-shop.  There  had  been  a  vast 
amount  of  talk  and  gesticulation;  a  man  suddenly  lifted 
his  arm  and  struck;  another  man  ran  past  me  and  fell 
on  the  farther  side  of  the  bridge.  O'Connor  and  I  ran 
and  caught  him,  and  held  his  head.  It  was  the  law  that 
those  persons  found  near  a  wounded  or  dead  man  should 
be  arrested.  All  other  people  stood  aloof  and  tried  to 
explain  this  to  us.  O'Connor  shouted  in  English;  I 
appealed  in  French.  We  were  arrested  by  two  men  in 
cocked  hats  and  hauled  off  to  jail.  The  wounded  man 
bled  to  death.  It  was  a  great  adventure. 

The  fog  and  rain  without  and  the  fire  within,  and  the 
good  things  my  mother  had  sent  me  to  eat  all  helped  to 
make  my  narrative  lively;  the  time  passed  quickly.  At 
length  Monsieur  La  Tappy  rose  to  go.  He  was  working 
his  poor  hands,  again  he  closed  his  eyes  with  that  curi- 
ous suddenness  and  opened  them  widely.  I  helped  him 
on  with  his  coat,  still  chatting.  I  had  been  so  busy  with 
my  anecdote  that  I  had  not  noticed  it  before,  but  it  now 
seemed  to  me  that  he  was  not  so  gay  as  usual;  the  mask 
seemed  a  bit  awry.  It  was  his  custom  when  handling 
anything  to  speak  its  name  in  French.  As  I  gave  him 
his  coat  he  said,  "Mon  surtout";  on  receiving  his  poor, 
faded  slouch-hat  he  said,  "Mon  chapeau";  then  came 
the  umbrella,  and  "Mon  parapluie." 

"Ah,"  said   I   gayly,   "don't  leave  that  behind,  no, 


MONSIEUR  LA  TAPPY  215 

gentleman!"  and  I  burlesqued  his  way  of  saying:  "No, 
sir."  Then  I  completed  the  phrase,  "Pour  moi  il  n'y  a 
pas  de  dieu." 

La  Tappy  had  his  hand  on  the  door.  He  turned  to 
me.  I  fell  back  in  fear.  His  face  was  livid;  in  the  dim 
room  his  eyes  shone  like  two  dull  coals.  For  a  second 
he  looked  at  me,  then  he  raised  his  right  hand  above  his 
head  and  pointed  upwards;  he  tried  to  speak  but  no 
sound  came;  he  seemed  to  fade  through  the  door.  I 
rubbed  my  eyes — had  I  been  dreaming  ?  I  was  so  af- 
fected that  for  a  moment  I  stood  still;  I  feared  that  I 
had  somehow  offended  him  by,  so  foolishly,  burlesquing 
his  words.  I  ran  to  the  door;  there  was  no  sign  of  him. 
To  the  window;  it  was  now  5.30,  and  as  black  as  ink. 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  follow  him  and  say  I  was  sorry. 
I  put  on  my  hat  and  coat,  and  opened  the  door  of  my 
room.  A  man  met  me  in  the  doorway. 

"I  am  Monsieur  La  Tappy's  son,"  said  he.  "My 
father  had  an  appointment  with  you  at  four,  but  I  have 
come  to  tell  you  he  can't  be  here;  he  died  at  three 
o'clock." 

"He  has  been  here!"  said  I. 

"No.    He  is  dead." 

"But  he  has  only  left  me  a  moment  since." 

"Impossible!    He  is  at  home  dead  on  his  bed." 

I  could  hardly  speak:  "He  died  suddenly?  He  said 
nothing?" 

"He  died  suddenly,  and  he  spoke  one  word:  'Par- 
don.' " 


XXIV 
I  CHOOSE  A  PROFESSION 

THE  mind's  eye  blinks  a  bit  when  it  contemplates 
my  Lord  Dundreary  in  the  pulpit.  The  church,  how- 
ever, was  my  father's  original  destination.  My  grand- 
father, a  very  conservative  merchant  of  Liverpool,  had 
set  his  heart  on  his  son's  entrance  into  holy  orders.  In- 
deed, my  father  studied  diligently  to  that  end;  but 
nature  rebelled  and  he  compromised  later  on  by  taking 
up  the  study  of  medicine.  This  he  pursued  for  some 
time,  even  going  so  far  as  to  enter  the  hospital  of  Saint 
Bartholomew  in  London.  However,  he  abandoned  the 
temple  of  ^Esculapius  and  suddenly  went  on  the  stage; 
so  much  to  the  horror  of  his  father  that  he  was  obliged 
to  shift  for  himself  for  many  years,  and  underwent  such 
labor  and  disappointment  that,  after  ten  years  of  acting, 
he  seriously  considered  abandoning  the  theatre  and  re- 
turning .to '  commercial  life,  the  church  and  the  consult- 
ing-room being  now  out  of  the  question. 

Owing  to  these  hard  experiences,  my  father  was  most 
eager  that  his  sons  should  seek  less  thorny  paths.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  determined  to  allow  our  natural 
inclinations  to  have  full  sway,  for  he  remembered  how 
he  had  rebelled  at  the  authority  which  compelled  him  to 
labor  at  two  callings  which  were  distasteful  to  him. 

During  the  later  years  of  his  life,  I  saw  my  father 
seldom,  for  he  was  usually  playing  in  America  while  I 
was  at  school  in  England.  Whenever  I  did  see  him,  how- 

216 


I  CHOOSE  A  PROFESSION  217 

ever,  this  question  as  to  what  I  was  to  be  was  always 
broached.  Quite  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  my  father 
would  say:  "Well,  what  are  you  going  to  be?  This  is 
very  important  and  must  be  settled  before  you  are  much 
older.  You  must  make  up  your  mind  about  it  at  once." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  the  vaguest  idea  of  what  I 
wanted  to  be,  since  no  profession  had  been  chosen  for 
me — for  the  theatre  was  tabooed  as  being  a  hard,  pre- 
carious, and  impossible  field  for  stupid  people,  of  which 
it  was  admitted  I  was  one.  I  was  greatly  disconcerted 
when  these  attacks  were  levelled  at  me.  Once  I  had 
wished  to  be  a  red  Indian,  later  a  sailor;  by  and  by,  being 
a  very  nervous,  shy  child,  I  had  wished  to  have  the  iron 
nerve  and  pale,  impassive  countenance  of  the  Count  of 
Monte  Cristo.  "The  count  was  pale  but  firm,"  struck 
me  as  a  satisfactory  state  to  be  in  permanently.  My 
latest  plan  was  to  be  a  farmer.  The  country,  solitude, 
open  air — these  things  appealed  to  me  strikingly.  None 
of  these  ideas  but  the  "farmer"  did  I  confide  to  my 
parent.  He  was  not  enthusiastic  and  I  abandoned  the 
idea.  I  had  some  small  inclination  for  drawing,  and  my 
father  seized  on  that  as  the  direction  I  should  travel. 

"How  would  you  like  to  be  a  painter  ?"  said  he  one  day. 

"I  think  I  would  like  it,"  said  I. 

"Good!"  said  he.  "That's  settled.  I'll  send  you  at 
once  to  O'Connor.  Scene-painting  will  give  you  a  fine, 
broad  style.  Meantime  you  stoop  too  much,  so  we'll 
go  and  buy  some  braces  to  hold  the  shoulders  back." 

This  we  did  with  swift  decision.  I  was  braced  like 
a  soldier  in  half  an  hour,  and  in  an  hour  it  had  been  ar- 
ranged that  I  should  leave  school  and  take  up  the  study 
of  drawing  and  color. 

I  studied  scene-painting  with  those  braces  on,  suffer- 


2i8  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

ing  torture  as  I  wielded  a  huge  brush  in  either  hand. 
The  connection  between  scene-painting  and  standing 
up  straight  puzzled  me  then,  and  I  can't  perceive  it  now, 
but  it  was  enough  for  me  that  my  father  saw  it.  What 
a  happy  age,  that,  when  the  parent  is  a  Godlike  being 
who  knows  all  things  I  My  father  was  the  most  adorable 
of  men,  all  that  affection  could  offer  he  gave  to  his  chil- 
dren, and  in  his  glorious,  buoyant,  effervescent  nature 
we  saw  the  constant  sunshine  of  youth  and  knowledge. 
To  him  everything  seemed  possible.  His  swift  decisions 
seemed  to  us  the  decrees  of  happy  fate.  So  with  en- 
thusiasm I  attacked  my  painting  and,  indeed,  was  happy 
and  content  until  I  came  to  know,  after  three  or  four 
years,  that  my  gift  was  small,  and  that  it  was  necessary 
for  me  to  earn  a  living  more  securely  and  more  rapidly 
than  my  meagre  talent  would  allow.  My  father  did 
not  believe  this,  but  I  knew  it. 

I  came  out  to  America  in  1879  with  my  mother's 
brother,  Captain  Hugh  Stewart.  My  father  was  living 
at  the  Gramercy  Park  Hotel  in  New  York.  One  day 
we  were  at  breakfast  when  in  came  Mr.  James  Ruggles, 
whose  father  had  presented  Gramercy  Park  to  the  city 
of  New  York,  as  a  stone  on  the  pavement  at  the  west 
end  of  the  park  testifies. 

The  circumstances  under  which  I  became  an  actor 
are  so  peculiar  that  a  sceptical  nature  will  discard  them 
as  an  improbable  fiction.  Ruggles  had  dealings  with 
my  father  in  some  real-estate  matter  and  was  discussing 
dry  details  when  Sam,  the  waiter,  entered  with  the 
breakfast.  The  eggs  were  broken  into  a  glass — my  father 
preferred  to  eat  eggs  out  of  the  shell. 

"I  hate  eggs  served  in  that  beastly  American  fash- 
ion," said  my  father. 


I  CHOOSE  A  PROFESSION  219 

Ruggles  looked  up.  "Oh,  come,"  said  he.  "You 
can  say  beastly  or  you  can  say  American,  but  it  is  of- 
fensive to  say  'beastly  American.' ' 

"Not  at  all,"  said  my  father,  whose  mischievous 
spirit  loved  the  prospect  of  agitating  Ruggles  or  any- 
body else — he  had  the  scent  for  excitement  of  several 
Irishmen.  "It  is  both  beastly  and  American,  conse- 
quently it  is  correct  to  say  'beastly  American.' ' 

"I  must  take  exception,"  said  Ruggles,  really  ruffled. 
"I  am  an  American,  and  I  must  protest  against  such  an 
expression.  It  reflects  on  the  manners  and  habits  of  my 
country,  and  I  assure  you  that  I  am  unable  to  hear  such 
a  phrase  used  with  equanimity."  He  arose  and  walked 
about  greatly  perturbed. 

Sam,  the  waiter,  announced:  "Captain  Hugh  Stewart 
and  Captain  Atkinson." 

Captain  Atkinson  was  an  English  cavalry  officer,  quite 
of  the  long,  solemn,  and  rather  weary  kind,  retired,  rather 
elderly. 

"We  will  leave  it  to  Stewart  and  Atkinson,"  cried  my 
father  apparently  in  great  excitement.  Then  to  Sam: 
"Take  away  the  breakfast;  I  am  upset,  I  can't  eat  it. 
Now,  I  say  that  to  break  eggs  into  a  glass  like  that"  — 
pointing  to  the  departing  eggs — "is  both  beastly  and 
American,  and  Ruggles  here  says  that  although  ad- 
mittedly American,  it  is  not  beastly,  and  that  the  ex- 
pression offends  him.  What  do  you  say  ?"  He  seemed  so 
honestly  excited  and  perturbed  that  both  the  newcomers 
were  at  once  engaged  seriously  in  considering  the  problem. 

"I  like  eggs  that  way,"  said  Atkinson. 

"I  don't,"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

"There!"  said  my  father.  "There,  and  Hugh  is  a 
sailor." 


220  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

The  application  of  this  remark  was  not  quite  clear, 
but  all  eyes  wandered  to  Hugh.  I  was  really  concerned. 
The  matter  seemed  serious. 

"How  can  you  expect  Atkinson,  who  is  a  cavalry 
officer,  to  know  anything  about  eggs?"  continued  my 
father. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  drawled  Atkinson,  "I  know  an 
egg  when  I  see  one." 

"One  thing  is  quite  certain!"  cried  my  father;  "Hugh 
invented  a  saddle  which  was  adopted  by  the  army." 

This  was  a  master-stroke.  My  uncle's  chief  vanity 
was  this  very  thing.  He  was  a  naval  officer  of  great 
accomplishment  and  much  distinction,  but  these  matters 
seemed  to  him  as  nothing  to  the  fact  that  he  had  in- 
vented this  same  saddle. 

"Yes!"  cried  Uncle  Hugh.  "It  took  a  sailor  to  make 
a  saddle  for  the  army." 

"Yes,"  drawled  Atkinson,  "but  it's  one  thing  to  make 
a  saddle  and  another  to  stay  in  it,"  and  he  laughed  in 
a  drawn-out,  languid,  and  rather  offensive  way.  "Be- 
sides, a  tailor  should  stick  to  his  last." 

"Shoemaker,"  said  my  father. 

"Yes,"  said  Hugh,  "shoemaker." 

"Atkinson  means  to  say,  Hugh,"  said  my  father, 
'You  may  ride  the  waves,  my  dear  Stewart,  but  you 
can't  stay  on  a  horse."1 

"The  devil,  I  can't!"  said  Hugh.  "I'll  race  him  any- 
where for  any  sum.  Come  on !" 

Hugh  was  quite  hot  and  Atkinson  was  annoyed. 

"But  the  eggs!"  said  my  father.  "How  about  the 
eggs?" 

"I  say  it  is  beastly!"  said  Hugh. 

"I  say  distinctly  it  is  not!"  said  Atkinson. 


I  CHOOSE  A  PROFESSION  221 

Ruggles  approached  Atkinson.  "Sir,"  said  he,  "I 
thank  you." 

My  father  seized  the  hand  of  Hugh.  "Stewart,"  said 
he,  "I  appreciate  this  more  than  I  can  say.  Of  course," 
my  father  continued,  "we  can't  settle  the  matter  by 
racing,  and  one  couldn't  call  a  man  out  for  such  a 
trifle;  and  yet  I  hate  to  leave  it  undecided;  Ruggles  is 
serious." 

"I  hold  to  my  position,"  said  Ruggles. 

"Exactly!"  said  my  father.  "I,  on  the  other  hand, 
am  absolutely  adamant  in  my  attitude." 

"Let's  wrestle  for  it,"  said  Hugh. 

Ruggles,  who  was  about  to  depart,  stopped  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Good!"  said  my  father. 

"Wrestle!"  said  Atkinson. 

"Yes,"  said  Hugh,  "although  I  am  a  sailor." 

"I'll  go  you!"  said  Atkinson. 

It  is  incredible,  but  these  two  grown-up  men  seriously 
encountered.  My  father  cleared  away  the  furniture  with 
enthusiasm;  Ruggles,  fascinated,  looked  on;  I  got  up 
against  the  wall.  They  wrestled  all  over  the  room,  up 
and  down  and  about — they  were  under  the  piano;  they 
fell  with  fury  against  the  door.  Ruggles  was  perforce 
made  to  jump  about  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  com- 
batants. I  loved  my  Uncle  Hugh  and  was  emotionally 
concerned  for  him.  Atkinson  seemed  to  become  a  fury 
incarnate;  his  long  limbs,  usually  so  passive,  seemed 
turned  into  twisting  serpents.  Hugh's  sea-legs  became 
the  tentacles  of  the  octopus.  For  about  three  minutes 
the  turmoil  lasted;  my  father,  with  fire  in  his  eye,  ejacu- 
lating every  now  and  then,  "  Beastly  has  it !  No,  it 
doesn't !"  as  Hugh  was  down.  "Ruggles,  you  win  !  No, 


222  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

you  don't!"  as  Hugh,  with  a  superhuman  effort,  threw 
Atkinson  into  the  fireplace. 

We  dragged  him  out,  his  hair  was  singed. 

"By  gad  !"  said  Atkinson. 

"Beastly  it  is!"  said  my  father. 

"I  take  my  leave,"  said  Ruggles. 

"Brittania  rules  the  waves!"  said  Uncle  Hugh. 

There  were  congratulations,  refreshments;  Hugh  and 
Atkinson  departed  the  best  of  friends. 

"Now,"  said  my  father  to  me,  "let  us  decide  what 
you  are  going  to  be." 

I  sat  down  to  a  fresh  breakfast  to  consider  this  weighty 
matter. 

"Come  in!"  cried  my  father,  who  always  applied 
himself  to  reply  to  his  letters  after  breakfast,  a  matter 
of  a  couple  of  hours — he  was  very  methodical  about  this, 
punctilious  to  a  degree.  "Come  in!" 

It  was  Earp!  Now  Earp  was  the  barber  at  the 
Gramercy  Park  Hotel.  He  lived  in  the  basement — a 
perfectly  unbelievable  man,  thin  as  a  rail,  six  feet  three 
in  height,  solemn  as  the  sphinx.  He  eked  out  his  income 
from  barbering  by  raising  white  mice;  he  also  kept 
parrots,  love-birds,  flying  squirrels,  a  jackdaw.  My 
father  was  very  fond  of  animals;  he  always  had  one, 
sometimes  two  dogs  with  him,  and  frequently  purchased 
some  of  Earp's  menagerie  for  his  rooms  in  New  York. 
Earp  usually  looked  after  these  purchases  each  night, 
and  brought  them  to  my  father  when  he  came  in  the 
afternoon.  He  now  appeared.  This  was  the  first  time 
I  had  seen  him.  He  carried  his  barber's  implements  in 
his  two  hands.  My  father  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
where  Earp  had  placed  a  chair.  Earp  then  took  from 
a  large  pocket  a  parrot  which  crawled  on  to  his  shoulder. 


I  CHOOSE  A  PROFESSION  223 

My  father  paid  no  attention.  From  another  pocket  he 
took  two  love-birds  which  crawled  up  his  chest  to  his 
head  and  perched  thereon.  Two  flying  squirrels  emerged 
next,  and  flew  at  once  to  the  window-curtains  and  clung 
there  chattering.  Several  white  mice  then  appeared 
and  began  to  crawl  over  my  father.  At  last  another 
parrot  bestrode  Earp's  other  shoulder  and  a  jackdaw 
jumped  out  of  a  small  bag  of  razors  and  stood  on  a  table. 
I,  of  course,  was  surprised.  My  father  spoke  not — the 
thing  was  customary. 

"Fine  day,"  said  Earp. 

"Isn't  it?"  said  my  father. 

"Hair-cut!"  said  a  parrot. 

I  laughed  with  glee. 

"My  son — Earp,"  said  my  father  by  way  of  introduc- 
tion. 

Earp  held  out  a  sad  hand  which  I  shook  solemnly. 
I  felt  strangely  abashed  at  living  a  birdless  life. 

"Next!"  cried  the  jackdaw. 

It  is  a  fact  that  these  parrots  and  this  jackdaw  spoke 
this  barbarous  talk.  "Shave  or  hair-cut,"  would  one 
say,  "how  much?"  "Fifteen  cents!"  would  another 
remark. 

Meantime  Earp  conversed  on  the  topics  of  the  day — 
politics,  stocks,  the  theatre,  real  estate,  mice,  and  men. 
It  was  all  very  instructive  and  amazing  to  me,  lately 
landed.  At  last  the  conversation  languished. 

"Now,"  said  my  father,  "Eddy,  what  is  it  to  be? 
What  are  you  going  to  be  ?" 

I  had  been  wool-gathering,  watching  the  mice  and 
the  squirrels.  Recalled  to  the  serious  affairs  of  the 
planet,  I  looked  rather  blank;  at  last  I  ventured:  "I 
think  I  would  like  to  go  on  the  stage." 


224  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

My  father  sat  up  so  suddenly  that  Earp's  birds  nearly 
lost  their  balance. 

"You  want  to  give  up  your  drawing!"  said  he. 

I  told  him  my  reasons  at  length.  I  knew  I  was  hurt- 
ing him  and  hated  to  do  it.  He  had  set  his  heart  on  my 
being  a  painter,  but  I  lamed  him  with  reasons.  At  last 
he  seemed  to  make  up  his  mind  suddenly. 

"Good!"  said  he,  as  Earp  finished  him  up.  "I'll 
send  you  to  the  Boston  Museum.  You  shall  go  at  once — 
to-morrow!  I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  Mr.  Field,  the 
manager.  Mrs.  Vincent  will  take  rooms  for  you.  You 
won't  get  any  salary,  because  you  are  not  worth  any. 
I'll  give  you  twenty  dollars  a  week  on  which  you  will 
have  to  live,  as  I  and  other  poor  actors  have  done  before 
you.  You'll  have  to  work  hard;  it's  no  joke.  You  are 
making  an  awful  mistake,  but  I  won't  stand  in  your 
way.  I  want  you  to  choose,  but  you  must  get  at  it  quick 
and  find  out  what  it  is  like." 

I  knew  what  it  was  like,  for  children  have  sharp  ears, 
and  I  had  heard  ever  since  I  was  a  child  how  my  father 
had  failed  and  failed  and  failed;  how  he  landed  in  1852 
in  Boston,  where  I  was  going  to,  and  appeared  in  "The 
Heir-at-Law"  as  Doctor  Pangloss;  how  the  audience 
at  the  National  Theatre  hissed  him;  how  Mr.  Leonard, 
the  manager,  discharged  him  after  the  play;  how  he 
went  next  day  to  the  Howard  Athenaeum  and  asked 
the  manager  for  a  job;  how  the  manager  engaged  him, 
and  he  played  four  performances  a  day  while  my  mother 
played  small  parts  also  and  nursed  her  little  son  Lytton, 
and  when  the  next  day  after  his  discharge  a  man  ap- 
peared at  Mrs.  Fisher's  boarding-house  in  Bullfinch 
Place — a  man  who  said  he  represented  a  newspaper, 
which,  of  course,  he  did  not — and  calling  my  father  to 


I  CHOOSE  A  PROFESSION  225 

the  door  suggested  that  a  small  sum  would  prevent  a 
certain  article  recounting  his  lamentable  failure  from 
appearing  in  print;  my  mother,  who  was  at  the  top  of 
the  staircase,  came  down  and  cried  out:  "If  you  don't 
thrash  him  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again!" 

The  conflict  which  ensued  and  the  rejoicing  which 
followed;  the  penury;  the  hardships;  the  determina- 
tion to  give  up  the  theatre  after  ten  years  of  labor — all 
this  I  knew,  and  had  heard  with  those  same  sharp  ears 
of  childhood.  But  it  mattered  not. 

"Remember,"  said  my  father,  "always  say  you  will 
do  anything,  and  take  anything.  You  can't  learn  to 
act  by  telling  yourself  how  much  you  are  worth;  other 
people  will  have  to  tell  you  that." 

The  morrow  brought  a  slight  change  of  plan,  however. 

"You  shall  make  your  first  appearance  with  me," 
said  my  father.  "I  open  at  Abbey's  Park  Theatre  next 
week.  You  shall  play  the  cabman  in  'Sam."' 

He  went  to  a  trunk  and  produced  the  part. 

"Here  you  are.  You  have  only  one  line,  but  it  is  a 
most  important  one.  Sam  comes  on  the  stage  and  the 
cabman  follows  him.  Sam  is  a  delightfully  debonair 
spendthrift  who  owes  everybody  everything,  and  he 
has  neglected  to  pay  the  cabman.  He  greets  his  host 
and  hostess  buoyantly.  He  turns  to  find  the  cabman 
standing,  whip  in  hand,  and  touching  his  hat  intermi- 
nably as  though  he  were  wound  up  for  that  purpose. 

"Now,  my  good  man,  what  do  you  want?'  says  Sam. 

"You  reply:  "Arf  a  crown,  your  Honor;  I  think  you 
won't  object.' 

"Sam  protests  that  he  has  not  the  amount  handy  and 
borrows  it  from  his  host.  The  incident  is  important  as 
it  instantly  illustrates  Sam's  character. 


226  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"You  have  seen  London  cabmen.  Think  it  over.  Get 
your  clothes  and  your  make-up  ready  and  then  we'll 
rehearse  it." 

I  procured  a  wig  and  side-whiskers,  a  heavy  overcoat, 
an  old  high  hat,  a  whip,  thick  gloves,  gaiters.  I  made  a 
cabman's  badge  out  of  cardboard.  Night  and  day  I 
lived,  moved,  and  had  my  being  as  a  cabman.  Like 
the  actor  who  painted  himself  all  over  so  as  to  feel  like 
Othello,  I  tried  to  be  a  cabman  inside  and  out.  At  length 
rehearsal  day  arrived.  I  had  wandered  all  over  New 
York,  muttering:  "'Arf  a  crown,  your  Honor;  I  think  you 
won't  object."  Persons  had  heard  me  in  the  street, 
in  the  park,  and  had  looked  on  me  with  suspicion.  I 
had  visited  the  theatre,  and  had  upon  the  deserted  stage 
repeated  the  line  again  and  again.  A  very  fever  pos- 
sessed me.  I  was  alternately  terrified  and  elated.  I 
had  read  of  the  first  appearances  of  distinguished  actors, 
they  seemed  to  have  been  almost  invariably  disastrous. 
Yet  what  misfortune  could  be  mine  with  this  one  line: 
"'Arf  a  crown,  your  Honor;  I  think  you  won't  object"? 
One  could  not  get  mixed  up  with  such  a  simple  phrase. 
I  had  been  told  of  that  unfortunate  who  had  to  declare: 
"Behind  the  thicket  there  stands  a  swift  horse,"  and 
who,  agitated  by  false  friends  who  had  called  his  at- 
tention to  all  possible  mistakes,  had  at  last  said:  "Be- 
hind the  swiffit  there  skands  a  thick  korthe."  But  my 
way  was  clear. 

Although  extremely  nervous  at  the  rehearsal,  I  de- 
livered the  line  fairly  well.  My  father  did  not  praise 
nor  did  he  denounce  me.  I  felt  I  had  escaped  censure. 
I  let  up  on  my  study  of  the  part  and  looked  on  victory 
as  within  my  grasp. 

The  fateful  night  arrived.    I  felt  frightened,  but  secure. 


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I  CHOOSE  A  PROFESSION  227 

"Well,  my  good  man,  what  do  you  want?"  said  my 
father. 

I  gazed  on  him  spellbound.  I  was  conscious  of  the 
footlights,  otherwise  I  seemed  to  be  floating  outside  of 
myself.  I  touched  my  hat  constantly. 

"Well,  my  good  man,  what  do  you  want?"  repeated 
my  father. 

I  kept  touching  my  hat  but  could  think  of  no  word 
to  utter. 

The  audience  laughed,  and  during  their  laugh  my 
father  said  to  me:  "Go  on.  Say  'arf  a  crown,  your 
Honor." 

I  was  so  terrified  that  he  should  thus  expose  me  be- 
fore the  people  that  panic  seized  me. 

"Go  on!"  said  my  father  intensely,  and  I  saw  that  he 
was  desperate.  Still  I  continued  to  touch  my  hat,  but 
said  nothing.  I  felt  quite  incapable  of  thought. 

"Go  off!"  said  my  father  between  his  teeth. 

This  I  incontinently  did. 

The  scene  proceeded,  but  I  was  aware  that  I  had  ruined 
my  father's  entrance  and  spoiled  that  exhibition  of  his 
character  of  which  he  had  spoken.  I  was  quite  over- 
whelmed at  my  stupidity.  It  had  all  seemed  so  easy, 
and  I  had  been  so  perfect. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  I  cried  to  my  father  when  he  came  to 
his  room.  "Why,  I  knew  the  line  backward." 

"Yes,"  said  my  father,  "but  that's  not  the  way  to 
know  it." 

"But  one  line,"  I  wailed.  "It  seemed  impossible  I 
could  fail." 

"Yes,"  said  my  father.     "Most  people  think  that." 

I  went  to  Boston  and  entered  the  Museum  Company. 

I  returned  to  New  York  to  see  my  father  in  about  a 


228  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

month.  Again  Earp  entered.  Again  the  mice  and  the 
parrots  and  the  love-birds  and  the  squirrels  took  their 
part  in  the  proceedings. 

"How  do  you  like  the  stage?"  said  my  father. 

"I  like  it,"  said  I. 

"You  will  suffer,"  said  my  father  and  his  eyes  looked 
moist.  "I  hope  soon  you'll  be  worth  a  salary,"  he  added 
seriously. 

"How  much  ?"  said  one  parrot. 

"Fifteen  cents,"  said  the  other. 

"Not  yet,"  said  I,  and  my  father  smiled  sadly. 


XXV 
"SAINT  VINCENT" 

THE  "Boston  Museum,"  whither  I  was  bound,  was 
one  of  the  last  remnants  of  Puritan  prejudice  against  the 
theatre  as  a  place  of  amusement.  It  was  a  "museum/* 
not  a  "theatre."  The  word  "theatre"  was  not  per- 
mitted in  any  advertisement  or  playbill.  For  many 
years  its  doors  were  closed  from  Saturday  afternoon  un- 
til Monday  morning — there  being  no  Saturday  evening 
performance.  In  the  front  of  the  building,  on  the  floors 
over  the  box-office,  was  an  exhibition  of  stuffed  animals, 
wax-figures,  mummies,  mineral  specimens,  and  other 
odds  and  ends,  which  enabled  the  tender  of  conscience 
to  persuade  themselves  that  this  was  an  institution  of 
learning,  a  school  of  instruction,  and  by  no  means  a  place 
of  amusement.  True,  on  the  first  floor  was  a  theatre 
where  plays  were  given  just  as  in  any  other  theatre,  but 
the  intolerable  and  unholy  atmosphere  of  the  playhouse 
was  mitigated  by  the  presence  of  several  decayed  Egyp- 
tians whose  enlightened  and  tolerant  ghosts  must  have 
laughed  in  scorn  at  such  self-deception,  while  the  groups 
of  intelligent  animals  and  the  distinguished  company  of 
waxworks  must,  in  the  "stilly  night,"  have  held  weird 
conferences  as  to  what  virtue  resided  in  their  mouldy 
forms  which  could  change  the  abode  of  Satan  into  a 
house  for  the  godly.  Certain  it  is  that  persons  who 
would  have  considered  their  souls  damned  had  they 

entered   the   theatre,    frequented   the    Boston   Museum 

229 


23o  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

without  a  qualm,  although  every  kind  of  play  was  pro- 
duced there  from  farce  to  burlesque.  Pretty  dancers 
were  not  taboo,  and  the  broadest  kind  of  comedy  was 
tolerated. 

Says  Mr.  Clapp,  a  local  historian:  "The  Museum 
made  an  eloquent  appeal  to  the  patronage  of  sober  per- 
sons affected  with  scruples  against  the  godless  'theatre/ 
To  this  day,  there  are  citizens  of  Boston  who  patronize 
no  other  place  of  theatrical  amusement  than  its  'Mu- 
seum." Many  of  the  most  distinguished  actors  have 
played  here  supported  by  the  stock  company  and,  be- 
fore people  who  would  not  enter  another  playhouse  to 
see  them.  Writes  Mr.  Clapp:  "The  appeal  to  the  prej- 
udiced was  as  successful  as  it  was  shrewd.'* 

In  1879,  when  I  joined  the  Museum  Company,  that 
temple  of  the  drama  still  had  a  distinct  following  of  its 
own.  Each  member  of  the  organization  had,  from  long 
association  and  distinguished  service,  become  something 
of  an  institution.  Citizens  had  been  brought  up  from 
childhood  to  love  and  revere  them.  Especially  was  this 
the  case  with  Mr.  William  Warren  and  Mrs.  Vincent, 
whose  service  in  this  one  theatre  covered  a  period  of 
nearly  fifty  years.  "The  actual  merit  of  the  perform- 
ance at  the  Boston  Museum  was,  perhaps,  greater  than 
that  of  any  other  stock  company  in  the  country."  Mr. 
Warren  has  been  declared  the  superior  of  his  cousin, 
Joseph  Jefferson.  And  yet,  outside  of  the  city  of  Bos- 
ton— save  in  a  few  New  England  towns — neither  he  nor 
Mrs.  Vincent  was  known  at  all.  To  them,  however,  a 
modest  but  established  home  and  the  perpetual  enjoy- 
ment of  a  circle  of  intimate  and  admiring  friends  com- 
pensated for  a  wider  fame.  Many  of  a  greater  notoriety 
on  looking  back  would  gladly  have  changed  places  with 


From  a  photograph  by  the  Notman  Studio 

WILLIAM    WARREN 


"SAINT  VINCENT"  231 

them;  to  have  been  able  to  contemplate  in  retrospect  so 
many  years  of  peaceful  labor,  and  to  have  been  so  truly 
honored,  and  so  well  beloved.  To  such  an  extent  did  this 
sentiment  prevail  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Vincent  that  the 
Vincent  Hospital,  founded  in  her  name  under  the  aus- 
pices of  Trinity  Church,  is  in  these  days  sometimes 
inadvertently  called  "Saint  Vincent's  Hospital." 

Some  years  ago  was  sold  in  Boston  the  collection  of 
one  Mr.  Brown,  a  famous  gatherer  of  theatrical  pro- 
grammes, autograph  letters,  and  so  forth.  I  purchased 
at  this  sale  some  letters  of  my  father.  One  of  these  was 
written  from  Weymouth,  England,  in  1852,  to  Mr. 
Leonard,  the  manager  of  the  National  Theatre,  Boston. 
My  father  applied  for  an  engagement,  giving  a  list  of 
396  parts  which  he  had  played,  and  was  prepared  to 
play.  He  was  at  this  time  twenty-five  years  of  age,  so 
his  experience  as  an  actor  in  England  may  be  deduced 
therefrom.  Mr.  Leonard  engaged  him  for  leading  com- 
edy. 

In  1852,  under  the  name  of  Douglas  Stewart,  as  I 
have  said,  he  opened  in  the  part  of  Doctor  Pangloss  in 
"The  Heir-at-Law."  His  failure  was  so  complete  that 
the  audience  in  an  uproar  interfered  with  the  progress 
of  the  play.  My  father  approached  the  footlights,  hold- 
ing up  his  hand  for  silence,  which,  having  been  granted, 
he  said:  "Ladies  and  gentlemen,  if  you  will  permit  me 
to  finish  the  play  I  will  go  home  and  learn  how  to  act." 
He  was  allowed  to  continue  and  at  the  end  of  the  per- 
formance he  was  discharged  for  incapacity.  It  was  no 
unusual  thing  then,  especially  in  England,  for  audiences 
to  declare  their  displeasure  with  the  utmost  violence. 
Only  so  lately  as  the  year  1825  had  Edmund  Kean  been 
hooted  from  the  stage  of  a  Boston  theatre. 


232  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

My  father  accepted  his  dismissal  with  the  buoyancy 
of  youth,  fortified,  perhaps,  by  the  distresses  of  greater 
actors  than  himself,  and  applied  with  a  light  heart  to 
the  manager  of  the  Howard  Athenaeum. 

"What  can  you  do?"  said  the  manager. 

"Anything,"  said  my  father. 

"What  salary  do  you  want?"  said  the  manager. 

"Anything,"  said  my  father  again. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  the  manager. 

"I  mean,"  said  my  father,  "that  I  want  work;  that 
I  will  take  any  kind  of  work  and  any  salary  you  will 
give  me." 

He  was  engaged  at  nine  dollars  a  week,  and  played  two 
new  parts  each  week,  and  two  performances  a  day. 

My  father's  mood  at  this  time  may  be  gathered  from 
his  correspondence  with  a  New  York  manager  to  whom 
he  applied  for  a  position.  That  worthy  had  doubtless 
heard  of  the  fiasco  at  the  National  Theatre,  for  he  re- 
plied by  telegram:  "I  would  not  have  you  if  you  paid 
me  a  hundred  dollars  a  week."  To  which  my  father 
answered:  "Terms  accepted.  Expect  me  by  next  train." 

On  arriving  in  Boston  my  father  had  found  shelter  in 
a  boarding-house  kept  by  Mrs.  Fisher  at  No.  2  Bull- 
finch Place — a  quaint,  quiet  street  with  a  kind  of  toll- 
gate  across  it  close  to  Mrs.  Fisher's  house.  Here  in  this 
secluded  retreat  Mr.  William  Warren  and  a  few  other 
actors  resided. 

After  this  disastrous  first  appearance,  my  father  and 
mother  and  their  one  son,  Lytton,  moved  their  abode 
to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Vincent.  Now  began  a  friendship 
that  lasted  until  my  father's  death,  and  which  was  be- 
queathed to  me,  for  Mrs.  Vincent  survived  him  by  some 
years. 


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"SAINT  VINCENT"  233 

Often  have  I  pictured  to  myself  these  penniless  babes 
in  the  wood.  My  mother,  then  a  girl  of  nineteen,  and 
my  father  in  the  heyday  of  his  youth,  making  fun  of  mis- 
fortune as  though  that  monster  were  a  friend,  snapping 
their  fingers  at  disaster,  and  quite  disconcerting  the  de- 
mon of  poverty  by  laughing  in  his  face.  No  ill  fortune 
is  terrible  at  the  age  of  twenty-five. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  his  lifelong  friendship  for 
Mrs.  Vincent  began.  It  was  on  her  sympathetic  bosom 
that  my  mother  relieved  her  grief,  and  it  was  her  joyous 
counsel  and  all-conquering  chuckle  that  fortified  these 
children  to  face  fortune  anew.  Mrs.  Vincent  always 
spoke  of  my  father  as  "her  son"  and  he  forever  called 
her  "Little  Mother."  In  her  memoirs  she  says:  "He 
was  the  most  impudent,  audacious,  good-for-nothing, 
good-hearted  fellow."  He  was  forever  making  her  the 
victim  of  all  sorts  of  mad  pranks.  To  the  last  of  her 
days  she  could  never  speak  of  him  without  uncontrollable 
laughter,  even  when  she  was  pausing  to  dry  her  tears  at 
the  thought  of  his  having  passed  away. 

Mrs.  Vincent,  all  her  life  long,  was  devoted  to  a  modest 
and  quiet  charity,  and  she  found  at  once  a  ready  dis- 
ciple in  my  father.  Early  in  their  friendship  he  deposited 
with  her  a  magic  hundred  dollars  which  was  never  to 
grow  less.  When  in  the  course  of  her  ministrations  to 
the  unfortunate,  the  low-water  mark  of  twenty  dollars 
was  reached,  my  father  was  to  be  notified  and  the  balance 
restored.  When  Mrs.  Vincent  died,  a  twenty-dollar  bill 
was  found  by  Miss  Mina  Berntsen  under  the  paper  of 
her  bureau  drawer  where  she  habitually  kept  it — part 
of  this  fairy  fund  which  had  maintained  its  evergreen 
quality  for  twenty  years. 

My   father's   annual   visit  to   Boston   was   a   time   of 


234  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

whirlwind  excitement  for  Mrs.  Vincent.  His  approach 
was  heralded  weeks  before  by  all  sorts  of  extravagant 
letters  and  post-cards  and  telegrams;  love-messages 
written  in  red  ink  on  the  outside  of  envelopes — ten, 
twenty  of  them  posted  at  a  time — calling  her  "Adored 
One  I"  "Beautiful  Stalactite  !"  "Lady  Godiva  1"  "Boadi- 
cea ! "  a  thousand  extravagances.  Then  one  day  his  card 
would  be  taken  up  by  an  hysterical  maid  servant  named 
"Mattie,"  who,  with  starting  eyes  and  a  fist  in  her 
mouth,  would  announce:  "The  Duke  of  Wellington," 
or  "The  Sultan  of  Turkey."  Mrs.  Vincent  would  wel- 
come him  in  her  best  frock,  with  such  dear,  old-fashioned 
curls  on  either  side  of  her  rotund  face,  chuckling  so  that 
her  whole  body  shook.  Then  such  greetings,  such 
laughter,  such  tears,  such  stories,  such  mad  doings  on 
my  father's  part,  and  such  delight  in  his  mischief  by 
this  dearest  of  old  ladies.  Parrots,  cats,  canaries;  Mat- 
tie,  the  eccentric  maid,  with  her  face  full  of  wonder! 
Then  an  account  of  the  various  charities  to  which  the 
hundred  dollars  had  contributed  most  faithfully,  and  in 
much  detail  delivered,  and  many  tales  of  poor  creatures 
yet  to  be  relieved,  and  plans  and  confidences  and  rem- 
iniscences of  old  friends  long  gone. 

"My  dear!"  cried  Mrs.  Vincent  to  my  father,  "the 
vicar  of  Saint  Paul's  Church  had  intended  to  make  the 
poor  people  of  the  parish  eat  geese  instead  of  turkeys  for 
Christmas." 

"Great  heavens!    fFhy?"  said  my  sympathetic  father. 

"Because  geese  are  cheaper,"  said  the  distressed  Mrs. 
Vincent. 

"What  did  you  do?"  cried  my  father  with  rising  in- 
dignation. 

"Do!"   cried   Mrs.   Vincent.      "I   just   waited    until 


"SAINT  VINCENT"  235 

after  the  morning  service;  then  I  went  into  the  rectory. 
I  bearded  the  rector  in  his  den !" 

"The  devil  you  did!"  cried  my  excited  parent. 

"Yes,"  panted  the  old  lady,  "and  I  did  not  leave  him 
until  he  had  sworn  that  the  poor  people  of  the  parish 
should  have  turkey !" 

"Hooray!"  cried  my  father. 

"Stop!"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  rising  eagerly.  "Stop! 
Not  only  turkey,  but  cranberry  sauce!" 

"Incredible!"  said  my  father. 

"Yes!"  said  the  dear  one,  "and  what  is  more — cel- 
ery!" 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  said  my  father. 

"It  is  true,"  declared  Mrs.  Vincent. 

"You  swear  it?"  insisted  my  father. 

"I  swear  it !"  cried  that  dearest  old  woman. 

On  my  arrival  in  Boston,  it  was  to  Mrs.  Vincent's 
house  in  Chambers  Street  that  I  made  my  way.  I  had 
many  misgivings  as  I  walked  through  the  curious,  in- 
tricate, winding,  irregular,  Boston  streets,  so  like  the 
streets  of  an  old  English  town.  The  queer  New  England 
laws  my  father  had  threatened  me  with,  the  historical 
associations — Faneuil  Hall,  "the  cradle  of  liberty";  the 
old  State  House  with  the  lion  and  the  unicorn  still  ram- 
pant; the  Boston  tea-party;  the  mad  experience  of  the 
mad  Edmund  Kean;  my  father's  disastrous  failure  in 
1852 — all  these  kept  me  busy  thinking  as  I  walked  along. 
I  was  quite  sure  I  should  fail  to  begin  with.  I  was  not 
yet  nineteen.  Public  life,  curiously  enough,  was  entirely 
distasteful  to  me;  not  especially  theatre  life,  but  any 
life  with  crowds  of  people.  I  hated  the  thought  that  I 
should  have  to  perfect  my  work  in  public  at  rehearsal, 
to  exhibit  myself  in  the  process;  all  my  ignorance  and 


236  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

stupidity  and  imperfection  I  knew  would  tie  me  up  in 
knots  and  paralyze  me  and  sicken  and  dishearten  me. 
How  I  wished  that  I  could  study  it  all  in  private,  and 
then  stand  forth  confident,  victorious.  But  it  could 
not  be  done,  one  has  to  rehearse  and  look  ridiculous  and 
feel  ridiculous,  and  be  made  ridiculous  and  generally 
pay  for  one's  footing  in  the  theatre.  A  conceited  person 
with  a  comfortably  thick  skin  may  pass  through  this 
period  without  discomfort,  but  a  diffident  young  man 
who  has  the  fortune  to  be  sensitive  and  is  aware  of  his 
own  insufficiency  must  undergo  torture.  People  are  not 
consciously  unkind,  but  there  are  few  things  so  comic 
as  an  utterly  untrained  male  actor  trying  to  act.  I  knew 
well  what  was  in  store  for  me,  and  looked  forward  with 
a  definite  dread  to  my  initiation  into  the  Boston  Mu- 
seum Company. 

Wrote  my  father  to  Mrs.  Vincent:  "Eddy  is  a  dear 
boy,  but  he  will  never  make  an  actor."  Indeed,  it  is 
not  for  me  to  say  that  my  father  was  wrong.  Thus 
recommended,  there  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  dear  old 
lady's  arms.  My  father  had  failed  in  this  very  town 
and  had  succeeded.  Edmund  Kean  had  been  pelted 
with  cabbages,  and  was  a  great  man  notwithstanding. 
Truly  I  had  no  hunger  for  these  experiences,  yet  should 
they  be  mine  it  was  evident  there  was  no  need  to  despair. 
Let  me  proceed  toward  disaster  with  a  light  heart,  catch 
my  cabbage  on  the  wing  dexterously.  Perhaps  some 
day  this  same  cabbage  would  be  pointed  to  with  proud 
interest — maybe  sold  at  auction  as  a  valuable  memento — 
who  could  tell  ?  In  the  Players  Club  is  preserved  a  back 
tooth  which  once  belonged  to  George  Frederick  Cook. 
I  was  to  open  in  the  play  called  "The  Duke's  Motto." 
I  had  my  part  in  my  pocket.  There  were  many  cues, 


from  a  photograph  by  Sarony 

EDWARD    H.    SOTHERN    IN    1879 


"SAINT  VINCENT"  237 

but  the  only  line  for  me  was:  "To  the  health  of  our 
noble  host."  There  was  not  much  opportunity  for 
distinction,  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  could  I  excite  any 
great  distrust  or  antipathy.  There  seemed  no  chance 
for  cabbages ! 

It  was  in  a  cheerful  mood,  therefore,  that  I  knocked 
at  Mrs.  Vincent's  door. 

"My  grandson!"  cried  that  dear  creature  as  she  took 
me  to  her  embrace,  "for  your  father  is  my  son." 

Well,  I  made  friends  with  the  parrots  and  the  cats, 
and  the  canaries  and  the  strange  Swedish  girl,  Mattie, 
who  always  walked  either  sideways  or  backward  and 
forever  was  laughing  or  falling  down-stairs.  Some  friends 
of  Mrs.  Vincent  were  present.  They  looked  rather 
startled  when  told  I  was  to  be  an  actor.  One  man  be- 
gan to  laugh  in  a  breathless  way — I  learned  later  it  was 
his  habit  to  laugh  like  that  even  in  grief.  He  meant  no 
comment  on  my  intentions,  but  he  distressed  me  sorely. 
Mrs.  Vincent  took  in  lodgers;  also  she  rented  wardrobes 
to  amateur  actors.  The  lower  floor  of  her  house  was 
filled  with  costumes  of  all  periods.  Members  of  the 
Harvard  University  "Hasty  Pudding  Club"  were  great 
customers  of  hers.  It  was  a  quaint  household,  old- 
fashioned,  Dickensonian.  To  me  all  the  people  were 
new  and  strange  and  delightful;  hospitable,  affectionate, 
saturated  with  remembrances  of  my  father,  and  looking 
on  me  with  an  amused  curiosity,  as  children  might  look 
on  a  firecracker.  They  seemed  to  speculate  as  to  what 
direction  I  should  explode  in,  whether  I  would  be  able 
to  act  or  not.  I  was  quite  sure  I  could  not,  and  again  a 
kind  of  despair  settled  on  me. 

The  next  morning  I  went  to  rehearsal.  Rehearsal 
was  a  daily  ceremony  at  the  Boston  Museum,  such  as 


238  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

prayers  in  an  English  house,  or  grace  at  a  proper  dinner- 
table.  Ten  o'clock  each  morning  a  rehearsal.  Punctual 
as  I  was,  my  dear  Mrs.  Vincent  was  before  me.  She  in- 
troduced me  to  the  company  as  they  came  in,  thirty  or 
forty  of  them.  Up  I  would  bob  and  shake  hands  and  be 
greeted  and  sit  down  again  by  my  guide  philosopher 
and  "Mother.**  The  ceremony  became  quite  embar- 
rassing and  even  comic,  for  I  was  shy  and  conscious. 
At  length  Mr.  William  Warren  entered.  I  was  just 
from  England;  I  had  never  heard  of  Mr.  Warren;  I 
had  never,  until  a  few  days  before,  known  that  such  a 
place  as  the  Boston  Museum  existed.  Mr.  Warren's 
long  and  devoted  career  as  an  artist  was  as  foreign  to 
me  as  it  is  at  this  day  to  the  vast  majority  of  Americans, 
to  say  nothing  of  English  people.  His  great  light  had 
been  hidden  under  the  Boston  bushel  all  these  years, 
and  his  happy  lot  was  that  he  practically  had  no  his- 
tory outside  his  native  Common. 

"Mr.  William  Warren,"  said  my  dear  Mrs.  Vincent, 
"this  is  Mr.  Sothern,  the  son  of  E.  A.  Sothern." 

I  did  not  rise,  so  distracted  was  I  with  much  introduc- 
tion. Mr.  Warren  shook  me  by  the  hand  and  spoke  a 
kindly  word,  greeted  Mrs.  Vincent,  and  passed  on.  But 
I  had  made  an  awful  mistake.  I  had  not  risen  to  greet 
the  idol  of  Boston.  The  manner  of  the  entire  company 
which  had  been  kindly  tolerant  before,  now  became 
frigid.  I  felt  something  was  wrong,  but  I  could  not  tell 
what.  For  a  week  I  suffered  the  cold  shoulder.  At  last 
Joseph  Haworth,  with  whom  I  had  struck  up  a  friendship, 
thanks  to  Mrs.  Vincent's  intercession,  took  pity  on  my 
ignorance  and  told  me  that  everybody  resented  my 
treatment  of  Mr.  Warren.  Mr.  Warren  himself  had  re- 
mained behind  on  that  fateful  day  after  the  rehearsal. 


"SAINT  VINCENT"  239 

As  I  left  my  dressing-room,  where  I  had  been  busy,  I 
encountered  him.  He  patted  me  on  the  back.  Said  he: 
"My  boy,  I  knew  your  father  and  mother;  come  and 
see  me  at  my  lodgings  at  Mrs.  Fisher's;  we  must  have  a 
chat.  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  help  you." 

Of  course  I  called,  and  of  course  the  dear  old  actor 
was  sweet  and  kind.  Here  in  the  very  house  wherein 
my  boy  father  and  girl  mother  had  lodged,  Mr.  Warren 
took  me  under  his  wing. 

Said  Haworth:  "The  people  resent  your  behavior  to 
Mr.  Warren." 

"But  Mr.  Warren  doesn't  resent  it,"  said  I,  while 
before  me  arose  visions  of  cat-o'-nine-tails,  and  burning 
witches,  and  heads  without  ears,  and  Edmund  Kean 
standing  there  a  mark  for  cabbages,  and  my  father's 
speech  to  the  audience  in  1852. 

"My  adventures  have  begun,"  I  reflected. 

"To  the  health  of  our  noble  host !"  I  cried  with  much 
assurance  on  the  opening  night  of  "The  Duke's  Motto," 
already  one  line  had  become  a  small  matter  to  me.  I 
began  to  feel  my  wings.  My  father  had  arranged  to 
provide  me  with  that  twenty  dollars  a  week  of  which  I 
have  spoken.  I  was  to  receive  no  salary  whatever  from 
Mr.  Field,  the  manager  of  the  Museum.  But  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Seymour  asked  me  to  appear  on  salary  day. 

"I  receive  no  salary,"  said  I. 

"No,"  said  he,  "but  Mr.  Field  desires  you  to  come 
up  with  the  others  and  accept  an  envelope." 

This  I  accordingly  did  and  was  handed  an  envelope 
with  nothing  in  it.  No  sooner  did  I  grasp  it  than 
one  of  the  minor  members  of  the  company  said:  "You 
couldn't  lend  me  ten  dollars  out  of  your  salary,  could 
you?" 


24o  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"You  can  have  it  all,"  said  I  and  I  handed  him  my 
envelope. 

He  looked  at  me,  puzzled,  but  took  the  envelope  and 
opened  it.  "Don't  you  get  anything?"  said  he. 

"No,"  said  I. 

"Why  not?"  said  he. 

"I'm  not  worth  it,"  said  I. 

Such  an  admission  struck  him  quite  speechless,  and 
I  myself  believe  it  is  a  unique  confession,  albeit  quite 
sincere,  for  Edmund  Kean's  cabbages  were  ever  in  my 
mind's  eye,  and  fame  appeared  to  be  a  most  fickle  flame, 
liable  to  be  blown  out  even  by  those  who  had  been  at 
the  pains  of  kindling  it,  as  one  blows  out  the  gas  and  is 
poisoned  thereby. 

The  economy  of  a  stock  company  offered  interesting 
instances  here  at  the  Museum.  Some  of  the  actors  had  no 
intention  of  letting  grass  grow  under  idle  feet.  One  player 
was  a  barber  by  day,  another,  the  beloved  "Smithy," 
was  a  tailor — very  properly,  the  tailor  played  fops.  I 
had  a  particular  friend  who  was  a  cab-driver.  Who  shall 
point  the  finger  of  scorn  that  these  had  two  strings  to 
their  bow?  Their  example  might  be  well  followed;  an 
honest  barber  or,  for  that  matter,  an  honest  cab-driver, 
may  be  the  noblest  work  of  God.  And  well  may  the 
actor's  study  of  mankind  be  multiplied  a  thousandfold 
by  the  scraping  of  innumerable  chins  or  the  driving  of 
the  accidental  wayfarer  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 
Who  could  better  take  man's  measure  than  the  tailor, 
dissect  him  to  a  hair  than  the  barber,  or  consider  his 
final  destination  than  the  cab-driver  ? 

For  three  months  I  disported  myself  at  the  Museum. 
Then  my  father  arrived  in  Boston  on  his  annual  visit. 
We  were  at  the  time  playing  a  burlesque  called  "Pip- 


From  a  photograph  by  the  Notman  Studio 

"ST.  VINCENT"  (MRS.  R.  H.  VINCENT) 


"SAINT  VINCENT"  241 

pins."  I  had  quite  a  part  in  this,  and  was  made  up  to 
look  like  "Lord  Dundreary."  My  father  had  sent  me 
one  of  his  wigs  and  a  pair  of  whiskers.  His  delight  when 
he  saw  me  thus  decorated  was  unbounded.  I  had  to  sing 
a  song  and  execute  a  dance.  Most  excellently  foolish  I 
was,  but  it  was  one  of  the  rungs  of  the  ladder,  and  I  was 
learning  that  I  had  feet. 

Immediately  on  my  father's  arrival  in  Boston,  I  went 
with  him  to  call  on  Mrs.  Vincent.  She  lived,  at  that 
time,  in  Charles  Street,  having  recently  moved  from 
Chambers  Street.  As  the  door  opened,  my  father  dashed 
past  the  startled  servant-maid,  rushed  up-stairs  two  steps 
at  a  time,  flew  like  a  cyclone  into  Mrs.  Vincent's  room, 
saying: 

"Come,  we  must  fly  instantly;  all  is  discovered !  We 
are  lost !  Your  parents  are  in  hot  pursuit.  Quick !  Send 
for  hot  rum  and  water,  and  an  onion !  I  have  pistols 
and  asafcetida!" 

Meanwhile,  to  the  terror  of  some  sedate  persons  whom 
Mrs.  Vincent  had  invited  to  meet  my  parent,  he  seized 
that  gentle,  sweet,  and  hysterical  matron,  wrapped  a 
camel's-hair  shawl  around  her  and  carried  her  down- 
stairs; placed  her  in  her  rustling  silks  into  the  carriage 
which  had  brought  us  to  her  door,  cried  to  the  driver: 
"Quick,  drive  for  your  life !  We  are  pursued !  Five 
dollars !  ten  dollars  !  twenty  dollars  if  we  escape  !"  The 
driver  was  on  the  box  by  now;  the  horses  were  prancing, 
for  this  excitement  was  contagious.  Heads  appeared 
from  neighboring  windows,  passers-by  stopped  and 
stared.  I,  myself,  was  bewildered,  so  intense  and  earnest 
was  my  father.  Dash !  we  went  up  Charles  Street. 

"They  are  after  us!"  cried  my  father  out  at  the 
window.  "Go  on!  drive  round  and  round  the  Com- 


242  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

mon  till  I  tell  you  to  stop  I  Ten  dollars  1  Twenty 
dollars  1" 

The  driver  was  now  standing  up  on  the  box,  belaboring 
the  horses.  Mrs.  Vincent's  cries  and  laughter  alarmed 
persons  in  the  street.  We  went  at  much  risk  quite  round 
the  public  garden  and  back  to  the  Charles  Street  house, 
my  father  violently  directing  operations  from  the  window, 
and  intermittently  declaring  to  Mrs.  Vincent  his  adora- 
tion for  her,  saying  that  "since  they  had  to  die,  they 
would  die  together !"  and  much  to  the  same  effect.  Mrs. 
Vincent's  perturbed  household  gathered  her  up  and  took 
her  back  to  her  room;  the  cabman,  wild-eyed  and  re- 
warded, went  his  way,  and  an  uproarious  party  dis- 
cussed the  amazing  adventure. 

How  could  such  people  ever  grow  old  ?  They  never 
did  grow  old;  evergreen  was  Mrs.  Vincent,  a  perennial 
was  my  father;  both  of  them  had  the  hearts  of  children, 
responsive  as  children  to  the  touch  of  joy  or  sorrow. 

I  went  one  day  with  these  two  to  visit  the  poor  people 
who  were  for  the  moment  Mrs.  Vincent's  particular 
charges;  my  father  accompanying  her  as  a  friend  on  the 
condition  that  his  part  in  the  ministrations  was  not  to 
be  divulged  and  stipulating  that  he  was  to  be  introduced 
as  the  Grand  Duke  Alexis.  To  many  humble  abodes 
we  made  our  way  with  a  carriage  full  of  baskets  and 
parcels.  The  Grand  Duke  Alexis  was  received  with 
much  awe,  and  created  great  astonishment  by  showing 
these  poor  people  the  strangest  conjuring  tricks.  In 
one  house  he  asked  an  old  woman  to  please  give  him  a 
plate  of  roast  corks. 

"Roast  corks!"  said  the  astonished  dame. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent,  "a  favorite  dish  in 
Russia." 


"SAINT  VINCENT"  243 

"They  keep  out  the  cold,"  said  my  father.  Some 
corks  were  produced.  "Don't  bother  to  cook  them," 
said  my  father,  "I'll  eat  them  raw." 

The  good  people  observed  this  strange  nobleman 
solemnly  eat  these  corks,  or  seem  to  do  so.  He  would 
lift  a  cork  to  his  mouth  and  palm  it  dexterously  and  drop 
it  onto  his  lap.  A  small  child  got  under  the  table  and 
discovered  the  deception,  and  there  was  much  merri- 
ment in  consequence.  At  another  house  my  father  ex- 
tracted coins  from  Mrs.  Vincent's  ear,  and  discovered 
coins  in  the  pockets  of  people  whose  pockets  seldom  har- 
bored such  visitants.  Packs  of  cards  were  produced  and 
strange  tricks  accomplished  with  them;  ventriloquism 
made  old  people  and  young  people  look  up  chimneys 
and  into  cupboards.  Never  were  such  feats  performed 
before  in  these  humble  homes.  The  climax  was  reached 
when  my  father  asked  one  household  if  he  might  be  per- 
mitted to  stand  on  his  head  in  the  corner  of  the  room 
and  say  his  prayers.  This  he  actually  did,  Mrs.  Vincent 
explaining  to  the  bewildered  onlookers  that  such  was  the 
custom  in  Russia.  Into  the  lives  of  these  suffering  people, 
such  astonishment,  wonder,  and  delight  entered  that 
night  as  was  the  topic  of  conversation  for  many  and 
many  a  day  and  night  to  come. 

The  incredulous  reader  will  exclaim  with  Fabian  in 
"Twelfth  Night": 

"If  this  were  played  upon  a  stage  now  one  would  con- 
demn it  as  an  improbable  fiction." 

But  my  father  was  like  no  other  man  alive.  His  moods 
were  as  violently  varied  as  the  wind.  His  tenderness, 
his  audacity,  his  agility  of  mind  and  body,  his  elfin  spirit 
of  mischief,  his  pity  for  the  unfortunate,  his  schoolboy 


244  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

delight  in  the  strangest  of  pranks  made  up  a  very  love- 
able  and  unique  personality. 

In  his  "Life  of  E.  A.  Sothern,"  Mr.  T.  Edgar  Pember- 
ton  relates  that  on  his  meeting  John  McCullough  for  the 
first  time,  McCullough  said  to  him: 

"You  knew  Sothern?" 
"Intimately,"  replied  Pemberton. 
"Then  you  loved  him,"  said  McCullough. 

Now  I  went  away  from  Boston  to  travel  and  play 
small  parts  in  my  father's  company.  His  last  season 
on  the  stage  it  proved  to  be.  In  a  little  while  he  was 
no  more. 

It  was  after  my  father's  death,  in  1882,  that  Mr.  War- 
ren's jubilee — his  fiftieth  year  in  one  theatre — was  cele- 
brated with  much  ceremony.  He  was  now  seventy  years 
of  age,  and  Boston  paid  him  a  worthy  tribute.  Then 
shortly  came  Mrs.  Vincent's  turn.  Her  dear  heart  was 
gladdened,  too,  with  the  homage  of  her  thousands  of 
friends.  Again  a  little  while  and  her  time  had  come. 
According  to  her  desire,  all  her  pet  birds  were  buried 
with  her.  They  were  mercifully  chloroformed,  and  she 
and  her  parrots  and  canaries  were  borne  to  one  grave 
followed  by  a  sorrowing  multitude. 

The  Vincent  Hospital  is  one  of  the  proudest  monu- 
ments ever  erected  to  an  actor.  Here  in  New  England, 
in  Boston,  where  the  prejudice  against  the  playhouse 
was  so  powerful  that  the  astute  managers  had  to  prac- 
tically charm  the  godly  into  the  belief  that  a  theatre 
was  not  a  theatre;  here  has  been  erected  by  Trinity 
Church,  under  the  direct,  immediate  instigation  of 
Bishop  Brooks,  a  noble  memorial  to  a  noble  woman  of 
the  stage.  Mrs.  Vincent,  "the  actress,"  in  the  very 


"SAINT  VINCENT"  245 

hotbed  of  prejudice,  by  merely  living  her  gentle,  kindly, 
loving  existence,  had  become  such  a  shining  light  of 
sweetness  and  goodliness  that  with  one  accord  people 
raised  this  hospital  to  her,  and  here  is  where  a  certain 
good  fairy  again  prevailed.  Down  Boston's  chimney 
she  came  and  made  Boston's  duty  clear. 

The  time  had  come  when  Mrs.  Vincent  had  moved 
from  Chambers  Street  to  Charles  Street.  In  the  opposite 
house  across  the  road  resided  one  Miss  Caroline  Staples 
with  her  mother.  Miss  Staples,  herself  a  quaint  spinster, 
regarded  Mrs.  Vincent,  the  actress  over  the  way,  with 
vivid  and  tremulous  curiosity.  The  old  player's  pil- 
grimage to  Saint  Paul's  Church  on  Sundays,  where  she 
occupied  the  same  pew  for  many  years;  her  departure 
for  early  rehearsal  and  for  the  play  each  evening,  her 
return  about  eleven  o'clock  at  night — can  one  not  see 
the  little  old-fashioned  Puritan,  Miss  Staples,  watching 
from  behind  her  curtain  this  denizen  of  the  wicked  and 
forbidden  theatre  ?  Did  she  not  wrestle  with  her  own 
imagination  to  discover  how  the  dear  dumpling  of  an 
old  lady,  fluttering  to  and  from  her  daily  labor,  could 
possibly  be  a  minister  of  evil  ?  For  Mrs.  Vincent's 
comings  and  goings  and  the  reports  of  her  acting  ac- 
complishments all  led  Miss  Staples  into  a  clearer  knowl- 
edge of  plays  and  players.  Mrs.  Vincent,  too,  had 
observed  Miss  Staples,  but  no  word  had  ever  been  ex- 
changed between  the  two  estimable  old  gentlewomen. 
Then  Miss  Staples's  mother  died  and  Mrs.  Vincent  sent 
over  a  card  and  a  note  of  sympathy,  and  a  mighty  friend- 
ship resulted.  When  Mrs.  Vincent  died,  Miss  Staples 
wished  to  create  some  memorial  to  her  friend  of  the 
playhouse,  and  consulted  the  good  fairy  as  to  the  best 
way  to  bestow  one  thousand  dollars  to  this  end.  A 


246  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

small  hospital  already  planned  to  emerge  from  a  working 
girls'  club  might  be  aided  in  remembrance  of  her,  and 
perhaps  this  modest  ward  might  be  christened  the 
"Vincent  Hospital."  Down  to  Bishop  Brooks  sped  the 
fairy.  "Would  Trinity  Church  be  willing  to  name  its 
little  hospital  after  an  actress  ?*" 

"Why  not?"  said  the  bishop.  "Why  not?  She  was 
a  good  woman." 

On  the  wings  of  love  flew  the  fairy,  and  gave  the  con- 
sent of  Trinity  Church  to  the  newspapers.  Then,  sorely 
frightened  at  her  own  temerity,  she  began  to  wave  her 
wand  so  that  the  one  thousand  dollars  should  become 
several  thousands.  A  great  fair  was  held  in  old  Horti- 
cultural Hall.  Mrs.  Vincent's  collection  of  fans  was 
mended  and  patched  and  exhibited  and  actually  sold — 
Mrs.  Malaprop's  fan  and  Lady  Teasle's  fan,  and  Mrs. 
Vincent's  costumes  were  placed  on  exhibition.  Ad- 
mission at  a  dollar  a  ticket  was  charged.  Thus  over 
four  thousand  dollars  was  raised.  Mr.  Edwin  Booth 
was  spoken  to,  Mr.  Jefferson  was  written  to,  all  sorts 
of  chimneys  were  adventured,  so  that  shortly  when  the 
deacons  of  Trinity  Church  gathered  to  discuss  the  fact 
that  Trinity  Church  had  sanctioned  the  naming  of  a 
ward  after  an  actress,  the  solid,  illuminating,  flaming, 
persuasive  fact  stared  them  in  the  face  that  a  large  sum 
was  at  the  back  of  the  enterprise  already,  and  that  it 
was  determined  that  not  the  projected  ward  only  but  a 
hospital  should  arise  to  the  honor  of  the  dead  "play- 
actress."  There  was  some  slight  demur.  But  Bishop 
Brook's  hearty  indorsement  turned  the  scale.  So  the 
plan  was  carried  through.  The  Vincent  Club  was  formed, 
a  permanent  institution  whose  members,  the  smartest 
young  women  of  the  city,  devote  much  time  and  loving 


"SAINT  VINCENT"  247 

care  to  the  affairs  of  the  charity.  Thus,  to-day  the 
affection  of  a  whole  community  is  consolidated  into  an 
institution  now  housed  in  a  new  and  adequate  building 
which  is  an  honor  to  them  and  to  the  sweet  soul  they 
celebrate.  "Saint  Vincent's"  Hospital!  What  gentler 
monument  could  the  old  actress  have  desired  ?  Out  of 
her  poverty  she  had  all  her  busy  life  spared  much  of  her 
slight  substance  for  those  less  happy  than  herself.  She 
was  never  more  than  a  stock  actress  on  a  small  salary. 
Her  life  had  been  one  of  hard  work  and  generous  sacrifice. 
For  half  a  century  she  had  labored  and  loved.  Her  one 
life  has  done  more  to  break  down  New  England's  aver- 
sion to  the  calling  of  the  actor  than  would  the  eloquence 
of  a  thousand  homilies.  And  one  of  the  sweetest  tributes 
I  can  pay  my  father's  memory  is  to  recall  the  fact  that 
Mrs.  Vincent  was  his  friend. 

Was  she  not  happier  and  more  fortunate  than  those 
of  us  who  sail  the  seven  seas  in  search  of  the  bubble, 
reputation  ?  Honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
and  all  that  should  accompany  old  age  were  hers;  and 
after  all  is  said  and  done,  these  are  the  things  that  are 
best,  for  when  the  curtain  falls  as  winds  that  blow,  into 
the  night  go  one  and  all. 


XXVI 
JOHN  McCULLOUGH 

"A  BABBLED  o*  green  fields,"  whispered  Mistress  Quickly 
as  Falstaff  lay  in  the  adjoining  room  slowly  marching  on 
his  final  journey.  Surely  this  mountain  of  flesh  saw  him- 
self again  as  a  mole-hill  and  reverted,  as  all  men  will,  to 
his  earliest  days. 

It  was,  I  believe,  in  this  mood  that,  in  the  last  year 
of  his  life,  my  father's  thoughts  returned  to  some  modest 
lodgings  which  he  had  once  occupied  in  company  with 
two  other  actors  in  the  small  seaport  of  Yarmouth  in 
England.  Many  years  before  Mr.  Douglas  Stewart,  as 
my  father  was  then  called,  was  a  member  of  the  com- 
pany at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Birmingham.  The  stage- 
manager  and  heavy  man  was  one  James  Crucifix  Smith, 
a  broad  man  blessed  with  a  tall,  majestic  wife.  These 
two  became  dear  friends  of  my  father,  and  on  certain 
high-days  and  holidays  they  would  go  to  Yarmouth  on 
fishing  excursions;  occasionally  the  company  might  play 
in  Yarmouth  and  other  adjacent  towns.  These  lodgings 
of  which  I  speak  were  on  a  terrace  at  right  angles  to  the 
seashore.  You  stepped  out  of  the  front  door  on  to  the 
pebbly  beach,  on  which  was  a  line  of  fishing-boats  drawn 
up  and  extending  as  far  along  the  shore  as  the  eye  could 
reach — weather-beaten,  picturesque  craft  with  sails  of 
every  hue;  and  old  salts  and  young  salts  hard  by  mend- 
ing their  herring  nets,  while  a  scent  of  seaweed  and  fish 

was  heavy  on  the  breeze. 

248 


JOHN  McCULLOUGH  249 

In  these  modest  rooms,  in  days  long  gone,  James 
Crucifix  Smith  and  my  father,  mothered  and  cooked  for 
by  Mrs.  Smith,  had  passed  some  joyful  days. 

One  morning  when  he  was  ill  and  worn  after  his 
last  season  in  America,  my  father  said:  "Pack  up! 
We  are  going  to  Yarmouth  to  fish."  James  Crucifix 
Smith  met  us  at  the  station  on  our  arrival.  I  had 
never  seen  Smith  before.  He  was  as  broad  as  he  was 
long,  his  countenance  beamed  as  the  morning  sun  and 
was  surely  as  round.  He  had  the  largest  coal-black 
mustache  I  had  ever  seen.  He  was  dressed  for  fishing 
in  a  costume  which  seafaring  men  don  when  they  en- 
counter typhoons  and  other  devastating  storms.  The 
day  was  fair  as  an  Arcadian  song,  the  sea  was  like  glass. 
But  when  Smith  fished  he  meant  business.  My  father, 
too,  had  brought  an  outfit  such  as  men  prepare  for  polar 
expeditions.  I  had  been  on  many  fishing  excursions  with 
him  in  America — the  Rangeley  Lakes,  Lake  Tahoe,  the 
Saint  Lawrence  River  in  Canada.  A  great  variety  of 
weapons  was  always  procured — supplies  such  as  arctic 
and  African  explorers  might  require;  a  literature  of  fish 
and  fishers,  and  tackle  for  leviathan  or  a  minnow.  Mrs. 
Smith  was  also  at  the  station,  a  dear,  motherly  matron; 
to  look  at  her  was  to  rest  secure  about  dinner. 

The  station  being  near  the  shore,  we  were  soon  in  the 
lodgings.  Very  small  they  were,  but  my  father  was  de- 
lighted. He  was  ill  and  worn  out,  but  he  became  young 
again,  rushing  about  the  house  and  recalling  the  days 
when  these  three  had  lived  and  laughed  and  worked  and 
scraped  and  economized  on  this  very  spot.  Smith  had 
a  boat  all  ready,  with  a  crew  consisting  of  one  boy. 
Smith  had  a  speaking-trumpet  such  as  admirals  use  in 
storms  at  sea,  and  with  this  it  was  a  simple  matter  to 


250  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

convey  his  orders  to  the  crew  who  stood  waiting  for 
them  not  ten  feet  from  the  window. 

"We  must  go  fishing  at  once,"  said  my  father  while 
dinner  was  cooking. 

"Of  course,"  said  Smith.  "I  knew  you  would  want 
to,  so  I  am  ready.  The  boat's  ready,  the  tackle,  every- 
thing is  ready.  Ahoy  there  !"  yelled  he  out  of  the  window 
and  through  the  speaking-trumpet.  "All  hands  on 
deck!"  and  he  gave  several  incredible  instructions  to 
the  crew  which  that  manner  proceeded  to  execute. 

Soon  we  were  at  sea.  We  fished.  I  was  unutterably 
seasick;  no  words  can  tell  how  wretched  I  was;  wet 
through  with  spray,  cold  as  ice.  But  Smith  and  my 
father  were  jubilant,  and  returned  to  the  small  lodgings 
weary  with  laughter  and  shouting  and  heavy  with  Yar- 
mouth bloaters,  mackerel,  and  codfish. 

There  was  much  anecdote  that  night  as  we  ate 
Mrs.  Smith's  leg  of  mutton  in  the  very  small  sitting- 
room.  Smith  had  always  played  the  heavy  villains  and 
Mrs.  Smith  the  stately  queens.  It  had  been  her  custom 
to  consign  Smith  to  awful  dungeons;  to  have  him  hanged, 
drawn,  and  quartered;  to  sentence  him  to  be  shot  ere 
dawn.  Many  times  Smith's  head  had  been  brought  to 
the  block,  and  the  executioner's  axe  had  put  an  end  to 
deeds  too  horrible  to  mention  here.  Few  men  had  lived 
so  many  wicked  lives  or  died  so  many  violent  deaths  as 
Smith.  Yet  there  he  sat,  beaming  like  the  setting  sun, 
his  large  mustache  moving  like  a  wave  of  the  sea  as  he 
munched  his  roast  mutton. 

A  happy  week  we  spent  at  Yarmouth.  But  shortly 
my  father  began  to  feel  restless.  I  did  not  know  it  then, 
but  his  last  illness  was  upon  him. 

We  went  back  to  London  where  it  was  arranged  that 


JOHN  McCULLOUGH  251 

I  should  join  John  McCullough  and  return  with  him  to 
America,  occupying  the  captain's  cabin  on  the  Adriatic, 
which  McCullough  and  my  father  had  expected  to  share 
on  the  return  journey.  With  much  seriousness,  McCul- 
lough, my  father,  and  I  constructed  a  legal  document  on 
half  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  my  first  contract  for  an  en- 
gagement. I  was  to  receive  twenty  dollars  a  week  and 
find  my  own  wardrobe.  McCullough  made  out  a  list 
of  articles  used  by  noble  Romans  and  others  that  I  should 
impersonate.  My  father  went  with  me  to  the  costumer's 
and  ordered  the  things,  with  a  glittering  array  of  armors, 
helmets,  togas,  hauberks,  befeathered  and  bedizened  and 
bewigged,  I  sailed  away  to  begin  acting  in  earnest.  Alas  ! 
In  one  year  my  father  died,  in  three  years  more  McCul- 
lough also  had  passed  away. 

John  McCullough  was  a  very  old  friend  of  my  father, 
who  confided  me  to  his  care  for  two  reasons.  In  the  first 
place,  my  father  earnestly  hoped  that  hard  work  would 
dishearten  me  with  the  theatre,  a  career  for  which  he 
was  convinced  I  was  totally  unfitted;  and,  secondly, 
should  I  determine  to  continue  acting,  he  believed  that 
a  company  playing  a  large  repertoire,  of  what  are  called 
legitimate  plays,  was  the  best  school  for  a  beginner. 
John  McCullough  produced  thirteen  plays  the  year  I 
was  with  him— "Othello,"  "Hamlet,"  "Merchant  of 
Venice,"  "Julius  C*sar,"  "Richard  III,"  "Jack  Cade," 
"Richelieu,"  "The  Lady  of  Lyons,"  "Brutus,  or  the 
Fall  of  Tarquin,"  " Virginius,"  "The  Gladiator,"  "Damon 
and  Pythias,"  and  "Ingomar."  I  was  given  about  six 
parts  in  each  of  these  plays  and  some  understudies. 
Most  of  these  parts  were  flying  messengers,  one  or  two 
lines;  leaders  of  mobs,  and  such  like.  Later  I  was 
given  better  parts — Roderigo  in  "Othello,"  Lucius  in 


252  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Virginius,"  De  Beringhen  in  "Richelieu,"  and  so  forth. 
At  first,  however,  McCullough  carefully  observed  my 
father's  wishes,  and,  in  order  to  impress  upon  me  the 
hopelessness  of  my  expectations  as  an  actor,  would, 
while  I  was  playing  a  scene  with  him,  comment  cheer- 
fully on  my  efforts,  under  his  breath,  as  thus:  "You're 
a  d d  fine  actor,  you  are."  He  was  quite  good- 
natured  about  it,  and  while  at  first  it  disconcerted  me, 
I  grew  accustomed  to  it,  and,  indeed,  found  such  candid 
criticism  useful. 

We  opened  the  season  in  Detroit.  I  had  brought  from 
England  my  large  trunk  full  of  beautiful  new  wardrobe, 
carefully  selected  to  meet  all  possible  emergencies.  In 
those  days,  each  actor  had  to  provide  his  own  outfit 
down  to  the  smallest  detail.  For  these  thirteen  plays  no 
scenery  was  carried.  All  productions  were  made,  by  the 
various  theatres  we  played  in,  out  of  stock  scenery.  It 
was,  therefore,  much  cheaper  to  play  a  large  and  varied 
repertoire  then  than  it  is  now,  when  the  actor  has  to  take 
with  him  six  or  seven  carloads  of  scenery  and  appoint- 
ments, and  when  he  must  provide  all  costumes  for  a 
company  of  sixty  or  seventy  people. 

The  costumes  of  most  of  the  members  of  the  McCul- 
lough company  had  been  worn  for  some  seasons,  so  when 
I  exhibited  these  beautiful  new  clothes  of  mine  they 
excited  much  admiration  in  my  dressing-room.  Men 
from  adjoining  rooms  were  called  in  to  view  the  nice 
new  garments  and  the  bright  shining  armor.  In  about 
ten  minutes  most  of  my  things  adorned  the  members  of 
the  company,  who  had  seldom  appeared  to  such  ad- 
vantage. I  had  some  misgivings,  but  a  desire  to  be  civil 
among  new  acquaintances  induced  me  to  let  the  mat- 
ter go. 


From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 

JOHN    McCULLOUGH 


JOHN  McCULLOUGH  253 

After  the  performance,  however,  McCullough  called 
everybody  on  the  stage  and  asked  them  to  take  off  this, 
that,  or  the  other — sandals,  armor,  helmets,  togas,  and 
so  on.  A  small  heap  of  my  belongings  adorned  the  centre 
of  the  stage.  "Now,"  said  he,  "keep  your  things  to 
yourself,  and  remember  that  in  the  beginning  the  tailor 
makes  the  man." 

I  did  not  play  many  important  parts  in  that  company, 
but  I  studied  all  the  plays,  heard  them  spoken  each 
night  by  very  capable  people,  and  always  look  back  on 
that  year  as  the  most  valuable  training  I  ever  had.  The 
company  had  worked  together  for  some  seasons,  so  much 
rehearsing  was  not  necessary.  Small  accidents,  how- 
ever, would  now  and  then  mar  a  scene,  as  one  night, 
in  the  drama  of  "Damon  and  Pythias."  When  we  had 
rehearsed  the  play  during  the  day,  one  of  the  smaller 
members  was  ill,  so,  as  he  had  only  two  words  to  speak, 
a  super  was  put  on  in  his  place.  In  the  Senate  scene, 
one  of  the  leading  characters  has  to  declare:  "I  do  as- 
severate it  is  the  vote,"  and  three  senators,  who  are 
seated  at  one  side  of  the  stage,  cry:  "And  I!"  "And 
I!"  "And  I!"  Myself  and  another  actor  were  two  of 
these  senators,  and  the  super  now  became  the  third. 
We  went  through  the  words,  we  received  the  cue:  "I 
do  asseverate  it  is  the  vote."  "And  I!"  said  I.  "And 
I !"  cried  the  other.  "And  Hi!"  said  the  super.  "No! 
No!"  said  Mr.  McCullough,  "not  Hi;  I!  I!  Don't 
pronounce  the  H  like  that  again!"  So  again  we  did  it, 
the  poor  super  very  conscious  and  perturbed.  "I  do  as- 
severate it  is  the  vote";  "And  I !"  "And  I !"  "And  Hi !" 
"Look  here,  my  good  man,"  said  McCullough,  "you 
must  not  pronounce  it  'Hi/'5  "Hi  know,  sir,"  said  the 
super;  "Hi  know  Hi  have  that  difficulty;  Hi'm  an  English- 


254  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

man.  But  Hi'm  sure  Hi  can  conquer  it.  Hi'll  practise  it 
all  day  and  Hi'll  be  all  right  at  night."  (Fatal  faith  1 
How  often  have  we  seen  it  the  prologue  of  disaster!) 
Well  the  night  arrived.  We  had  all  forgotten  the  episode 
of  the  morning  in  our  various  preparations.  "I  do  as- 
severate it  is  the  vote";  "And  I!"  cried  I;  "And  I!" 
said  the  man  next  to  me;  "And  me!"  said  the  super. 
May  he  rest  in  peace,  wherever  he  may  be!  To  me  he 
is  immortal. 

In  the  play  of  "The  Gladiator,"  Spartacus  overcomes 
his  opponent  in  the  arena,  and,  looking  up  at  the  specta- 
tors, who  are  on  an  elevated  gallery  to  the  left  of  the 
stage,  he  raises  his  sword  and  waits  for  the  signal  of 
"thumbs  down"  to  deliver  the  coup  de  grace.  We,  in 
the  gallery,  would  make  this  gesture,  the  blow  would  be 
given  and  a  fine  picture  achieved.  The  men  and  women 
in  the  gallery  were  composed  of  about  twelve  supers 
and  about  as  many  of  the  minor  members  of  the  com- 
pany. Since  only  the  upper  part  of  the  body  was  visible, 
the  lower  part  being  hidden  by  the  stone  parapet  of  the 
gallery,  we  wore  our  trousers  or  our  skirts,  as  the  case 
may  be,  under  our  togas.  One  night  McCullough  fought 
the  great  fight,  beat  his  foe  to  the  ground,  raised  his 
sword  for  the  signal  to  slay  him.  With  great  gusto  we 
all  made  the  movement.  The  platform  gave  way ! 
What  had  been  thumbs  down  was  now  feet  up.  We 
were,  some  twenty-four  of  us,  with  trousered  legs  and 
stockinged  legs,  male  and  female,  sticking  up  in  the 
air,  uninjured  luckily,  but  humiliated  and  sheepish  as, 
fallen  from  our  high  estate  of  Roman  nobles,  we  picked 
ourselves  up  and  trundled  off  the  stage. 

When  we  reached  Washington,  McCullough  one  night 
called  me  to  his  dressing-room  after  the  play.  In  the 


JOHN  McCULLOUGH  255 

room  was  General  Sherman,  whom  I  had  met  before  with 
my  father.  I  greeted  him  and  was  rather  surprised  when 
he  placed  his  arm  about  my  shoulders  affectionately. 
McCullough  said:  "Eddy,  I  have  some  bad  news  for 
you  which  I  have  been  holding  until  after  the  play," 
and  he  handed  me  a  cable  despatch,  which  told  of  my 
father's  death.  The  impression  made  by  such  news  is 
peculiar.  I  was  greatly  astonished  at  its  effect  on  me. 
I  would  have  expected,  had  I  ever  contemplated  the 
receipt  of  this  announcement,  that  I  should  be  conscious 
at  once  of  deep  emotion,  but  such  was  not  the  case.  I 
said  good  night  to  General  Sherman  and  McCullough  and 
went  home  to  my  hotel,  next  to  the  National  Theatre. 
I  had  my  supper  and  went  to  my  room,  and  still  I  could 
feel  no  overpowering  emotion;  I  suppose  I  did  not 
realize  what  had  happened  to  me.  I  was  greatly  dis- 
turbed at  this  seeming  heartlessness  on  my  part,  for 
I  was  conscious  that  I  loved  my  father  deeply  and  that 
life  without  him  was  going  to  be  very  empty.  I  knelt 
down  with  an  overwhelming  sense  that  something  was 
wrong  with  me,  and  that  this  lack  of  feeling  was  unnatural 
and  blameworthy,  and  I  prayed  for  some  light  and  some 
understanding,  but  I  received  none.  I  slept  well  and 
went  about  my  work  the  next  day.  People  were  sad 
and  sympathetic  when  they  met  me,  but  I  was  still 
quite  unable  to  grasp  what  had  happened.  That  night 
we  played  "Richard  III."  In  the  second  act,  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  the  character  I  was  playing,  is  discovered  on 
a  throne,  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  surrounded  by  his 
court,  Richard  III,  Lady  Anne,  and  quite  a  number  of 
people.  Richard  has  murdered  the  prince's  father  in  the 
tower.  The  prince  has  come  to  London  to  be  crowned 
King.  The  lord  mayor  comes  to  welcome  him  to  the 


256  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

city.  Shortly  the  prince's  brother,  the  Duke  of  York, 
enters,  and  says:  "Well,  dread  my  lord,  so  I  must  call 
you  now."  The  prince  replies:  "Ay,  brother,  to  our 
grief  as  it  is  yours.  Too  late  he  died  that  might  have 
kept  that  title  which  by  his  death  hath  lost  much  maj- 
esty." As  I  began  the  speech  I  felt  the  words  stick  in 
my  throat,  and  at  the  word  "death"  I  went  all  to  pieces. 
I  was  overcome  by  the  most  uncontrollable  grief  and 
sobbed  aloud.  Queen  Anne  (Miss  Kate  Forsyth),  who 
was  on  the  stage,  and  King  Richard  III  (McCullough) 
came  to  me;  and  the  others — courtiers,  ladies  in  waiting, 
men  at  arms,  pages — looked  scared  and  distracted.  The 
audience  made  no  sound;  my  father's  death  had  been 
announced  in  the  papers,  and  they  understood.  Soon 
I  controlled  myself  and  went  on  with  my  part,  and  with 
some  three  or  four  other  parts  I  had  in  later  scenes  of 
the  play. 

I  went  back  to  England  at  the  end  of  that  season. 
In  1883  I  returned  and  joined  McCullough's  company 
in  the  middle  of  the  season.  He  called  me  to  his  room 
one  day  in  Detroit  and  asked  me  to  write  some  letters 
for  him.  He  was  thin  and  looked  worried  and  ill. 
"There's  something  the  matter  with  my  head,"  said  he, 
"I  can't  remember  things."  The  shadow  was  upon 
him.  The  climax  came  very  shortly  in  Chicago.  It  had 
been  decided  on  account  of  his  condition  to  close  the 
season  and  disband  the  company.  He  had  been  told  of 
this,  but  he  called  a  rehearsal.  All  the  members  re- 
sponded. He  began  to  rehearse,  to  go  through  one  part 
and  then  another.  He  would  stop,  think  a  moment, 
and  begin  a  speech  in  a  different  play.  It  was  pitiful. 
The  company,  familiar  with  all  his  plays,  took  up  the 
lines  wherever  he  led  them.  He  went  through  a  scene 


JOHN  McCULLOUGH  257 

in  "The  Gladiator,"  then  he  went  to  the  last  scene  in 
"Virginius,"  where  Virginius  raves  after  he  has  killed 
his  daughter.  Then  to  "Othello's"  farewell  speech, 
one  he  had  often  told  me  that  his  great  master,  Edwin 
Forrest,  had  only  read  to  his  own  satisfaction  once  in 
his  life: 

O  now  forever  farewell  the  tranquil  mind !     Farewell, 

content ! 

Farewell  the  plumed  troop,  and  the  big  wars 
That  make  ambition  virtue;  O  farewell ! 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed  and  the  shrill  trump ! 
The  spirit-stirring  drum;  the  ear-piercing  fife; 
The  royal  banner,  and  all  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war ! 
And  O,  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 
The  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamors  counterfeit, 
Farewell !    Othello's  occupation's  gone. 

It  was  pitiful  in  the  extreme  to  hear  McCullough 
read  this  at  any  time,  and  trebly  so  now.  He  wandered 
through  others  of  his  various  characters,  the  people 
about  him  weeping  and  seeking  to  hide  their  grief.  At 
length  he  drifted  into  the  part  of  Cardinal  Richelieu. 
He  played  the  scene  in  the  garden  where  Baradas,  the 
creature  of  the  King,  comes  to  take  Richelieu's  ward 
away  from  him.  He  had  spoken  the  tender  speech  of 
protection  to  Julie,  and  now  Richelieu  says  to  Joseph, 
who  holds  him  up  on  one  side  while  his  ward  assists  him 
on  the  other:  "Well,  well,  we  will  go  home!"  Here  he 
walks  feebly  up  the  stage.  Baradas,  seeing  how  broken 
he  is,  says,  aside  to  De  Beringhen:  "His  mind  and  life 
are  breaking  fast."  Richelieu  overhears  him,  turns 
with  his  old  fury  and  cries:  "Irreverent  ribald!  If  so, 
beware  the  falling  ruin !  I  tell  thee,  scorner  of  these 


258  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

whitening  hairs,  when  this  snow  melteth  there  shall 
come  a  flood.  Avaunt  1  My  name  is  Richelieu  1  I 
defy  theel  Walk  blindfold  on — behind  thee  stalks  the 
headsman — aha !  How  pale  he  glares — God  save  my 
country!"  and  he  falls  fainting  as  the  act  ends.  Poor 
McCullough  went  up  the  stage  at  "Well,  well,  we  will 
go  home."  Baradas  said  his  line,  the  tears  streaming 
down  his  face:  "His  mind  and  life  are  breaking  fast." 
McCullough  threw  Joseph  and  Julie  off  as  he  turned  on 
Baradas  and  began,  "Irreverent  ribald!  If  so,  beware 
the  falling  ruin,"  and  stopped  dazed.  He  looked  at  the 
weeping  Baradas,  at  Julie  sobbing,  at  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany standing  about  overcome  with  grief  and  terror, 
and  collapsed  utterly.  He  never  played  again. 

John  McCullough  was  one  of  the  dearest  and  most 
beloved  actors  of  his  or  any  other  time.  In  some  parts 
he  was  magnificent — Virginius,  Brutus  in  "Julius  Caesar," 
and  Brutus  in  "The  Fall  of  Tarquin,"  and  in  Othello 
he  was  superb. 

It  has  been  my  fortune  to  encounter  two  rather  start- 
ling coincidences  in  connection  with  the  death  of  Mr. 
Booth  and  John  McCullough.  The  night  that  Edwin 
Booth  died,  I  was  taking  supper  in  the  dining-room 
of  the  Players  Club  with  three  friends.  There  were  no 
other  men  in  the  club.  It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  We,  of  course,  knew  that  Mr.  Booth  was  ill, 
but  his  death  was  not  expected  immtdiately.  While 
we  were  talking  over  our  meal,  suddenly  every  light  in 
the  club  went  out.  My  companions  began  to  call  for 
the  waiter  and  to  protest  loudly.  From  the  darkness 
right  at  our  elbows,  a  voice,  that  of  Mr.  McGonegal, 
the  manager  of  the  club,  said:  "Hush!  Mr.  Booth  is 
dead." 


JOHN  McCULLOUGH  259 

The  day  Mr.  McCullough  died  I  happened  to  be  study- 
ing the  play  of  "Cymbeline."  I  was  reading  the  song 
in  Act  II: 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages; 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust — 

when  a  friend  of  mine  opened  the  door  of  my  room  in 
the  Sturtevant  House  Hotel  and  said:  " McCullough 's 
dead." 


XXVII 
THE  NEAR  FUTURE 

"I  AM  sorry  that  I  have  no  position  of  any  importance 
open  at  this  time,"  wrote  Mr.  Daniel  Frohman  one  sum- 
mer's day  in  1883,  "but  no  doubt  in  the  near  future  I 
shall  be  able  to  offer  you  and  your  sister  an  engage- 
ment." 

"Man  never  is  but  always  to  be  bless'd,"  and  the 
eternal  springs  of  hope  spurted  joyfully  at  this  phrase. 

"In  the  near  future!"  Surely,  that  must  mean  next 
week,  at  any  rate  before  the  month  should  wane.  It 
would  be  absurd  to  imagine  that  "the  near  future"  could 
be  a  year  away,  that  would  be  far  into  eternity;  say  six 
weeks  at  the  remotest  calculation.  Then,  too,  the  words, 
"no  position  of  importance,"  one  could  build  on  that. 
Leading  parts  perhaps.  Doubtless  our  appearance  had 
made  our  capacity  evident  to  even  a  casual  observance. 
The  matter  was  as  good  as  settled.  The  future  really 
was  secure.  All  one  had  to  do  was  to  pass  the  mean- 
while with  a  light  heart  and  to  determine  calmly  and 
without  prejudice  what  salary  one  would  condescend  to 
accept.  One  must  not  undervalue  oneself  nor  make  the 
mistake  of  holding  one's  ability  cheaply.  Mr.  Daniel 
was  a  business  man  and  naturally  would  endeavor  to 
make  a  good  bargain,  but  we  owed  a  duty  to  ourselves, 
and  although  we  were  prepared  to  discuss  our  stipends 
with  civility  and  even  amiably,  we,  of  course,  could  not 

put  up  with  any  nonsense,  and  must  make  it  clear  that 

260 


THE  NEAR  FUTURE  261 

we  were  not  to  be  imposed  upon,  and  that  even  though 
we  were  artists  we  had  a  keen  business  sense. 

We  had  seen  this  actor  and  that  actor  whom  rumor 
credited  with  this  or  that  weekly  remuneration,  and  it 
was  clear  as  day  that  our  accomplishments  were  equal, 
if  not  superior  to  theirs.  We  were  modest  and  unas- 
suming, but  even  so  one  must  be  honest  about  it,  and 
admit  that  one's  quality  is  worth  such  or  such  a  sum. 

We  would  say  thus.  Mr.  Daniel  would  reply  so.  To 
this  we  would  demur  in  this  wise.  Mr.  Daniel  would 
beat  about  the  bush  in  such  a  manner.  We  would  keep 
to  the  point  and  drive  him  into  a  corner.  He  would  have 
to  admit  the  justice  of  our  argument,  the  propriety  of 
our  claim.  He  would  perceive  that  further  remonstrance 
would  be  indecorous,  even  indecent.  He  would  accede  to 
all  demands,  contracts  would  be  signed  with  a  certain 
ill-concealed  avidity  on  his  part,  and  with  a  dignified 
reserve,  a  pleasant  indifference,  on  ours.  Announcements 
would  be  made,  success  would  soon  follow,  clamor  for 
our  services  and  general  acknowledgment  of  our  desert. 

By  now  it  is  Thursday.  The  "near  future"  was,  at 
the  latest,  on  Wednesday.  A  call  at  Mr.  Daniel's  office 
elicited  the  statement  that  at  present  his  ranks  were 
full,  but  he  was  delighted  to  see  us,  and  in  the  near 
future  he  surely  would  be  able  to  place  us  to  our  ad- 
vantage. 

On  second  thoughts  we  really  could  afford  to  accept 
a  lesser  salary  than  that  we  had  determined  on  after 
Mr.  Daniel's  first  assurance,  and  indeed,  it  was  not 
necessary  when  that  anticipated  conversation  should 
ensue  to  create  an  atmosphere  of  hauteur  nor  to  allow 
Mr.  Daniel  to  feel  that  money  was  the  sole  object  of 
our  negotiations.  Perhaps,  two-thirds  of  the  amount  we 


262  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

had  selected  would  amply  repay  us  for  our  labors.  On 
that  sum,  should  he  engage  us,  say,  for  three  years — for 
we  would  not  tie  ourselves  up  for  a  longer  period — we 
could  take  a  lease  of  that  small  but  particular  house  we 
had  so  often  coveted.  Two  servants  could  take  care  of 
it,  although  certainly  one  must  have  a  fine  cook.  Yes, 
one  must  not  be  hard  on  Mr.  Daniel  nor  force  him  to 
pay  us  more  than  he  can  really  afford.  Some  concessions 
are  due  to  art.  One  must  not  be  too  mercenary.  Two- 
thirds  would  be  satisfactory. 

But  now  this  is  three  weeks  later.  A  little  note  to 
Mr.  Daniel  meets  with  the  charming  response  that  he  is  so 
pleased  to  hear  from  us,  that  he  bears  us  in  mind,  and  that 
doubtless  "in  the  near  future"  a  vacancy  will  occur  in  his 
theatre  when  he  will  be  delighted  to  notify  us.  Really  we 
have  been  hasty  in  assuming  that  two-thirds  is  actually 
necessary  as  a  matter  of  salary.  One  can  live  on  one-half 
of  that  original  amount.  Certain  economies  can  be  prac- 
tised. One  servant  besides  the  excellent  cook,  and  then 
the  place  need  not  be  furnished  so  extravagantly  as  we  had 
decided  it  should  be.  Besides,  once  we  are  at  work,  we 
shall  be  so  occupied  that  many  expenses  we  have  counted 
upon  we  will  not  have  time  to  indulge  in.  Perhaps,  we 
had  better  write  Mr.  Daniel  a  line  to  assure  him  that 
one-half  the  salary  we  first  thought  of  would  allure  us. 
But,  on  reflection,  he  has  not  yet,  in  so  many  words, 
proposed  to  avail  himself  of  our  services. 

By  this  six  months  have  flown  by.  We  meet  Mr. 
Daniel  on  a  street-car. 

"Anything  doing?"  we  cry  gayly. 

"Not  now,"  replies  Mr.  Daniel,  jumping  off  the  car; 
"something  'in  the  near  future,'  perhaps,"  and  he  is  gone. 

Well,    really,  the   house  would    be   an   extravagance, 


THE  NEAR  FUTURE  263 

anyhow;  one  can  be  perfectly  comfortable  in  a  hotel, 
and  if  only  one  of  us  can  secure  employment  we  can 
get  along  very  well;  besides,  this  plan  will  relieve  Mr. 
Daniel  of  a  great  part  of  that  celebrated  wage  which  he 
will  have  to  pay  us.  A  note  sent  by  messenger  suggests 
to  him  that,  perhaps,  he  can  use  my  single  service  in 
some  role.  Mr.  Daniel  is  delighted  to  hear  from  me  and 
hopes  I  enjoy  good  health,  but  just  at  present  all  his 
companies  are  full;  "in  the  near  future,"  however,  an 
opening  will  doubtless  occur. 

But  it  is  nine  months  since  this  tantalizing  phrase 
was  first  projected.  Will  Mr.  Daniel,  I  wonder,  give  me 
the  smallest  part  ?  Can  I  coax  him  to  pay  me  one- 
twentieth  portion  of  that  original  sum?  Daily  I  wait 
on  him.  Daily  he  smiles  and  waves  his  hand  and  daily 
says:  "In  the  near  future."  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Daniel 
would  hire  me  at  any  figure  at  all,  or  would  he,  per- 
chance, lend  me  ten  dollars. 

"Why,"  said  I  to  him  in  after  years,  "why  did  you 
not  give  me  a  job  when  I  pestered  you  so  constantly, 
so  persistently,  so  hungrily?" 

"You  looked  so  happy  and  prosperous,"  said  he, 
"that  I  did  not  think  you  needed  one." 

Then  I  told  him  how  empty  my  pockets  had  been, 
and  how  I  had  chewed  the  cud  of  that  sentence,  "in  the 
near  future,"  day  in  and  day  out,  and  how  my  sister 
and  I  had  wondered  and  wondered  what  day  of  what 
week  that  "near  future"  would  fall  on.  It  could  not  be 
far  away  now.  Now  it  was  here,  now  again  it  had  fled 
into  the  void,  far,  far  away. 

"You  appeared  so  neat  and  well-groomed  and  young 
and  cheerful,"  said  Mr.  Daniel,  "that  I  felt  sure  you 
were  not  in  need  of  employment." 


264  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"We  were  dressed  up  for  the  occasion,"  said  I,  and 
I  recalled  how  my  sister  had  put  on  her  prettiest  frock  to 
call  on  the  manager.  No  doubt  I  had  given  a  last  glance 
at  myself  in  the  glass;  probably  we  did  have  a  satisfied 
air.  A  lean  and  hungry  look  might  have  been  more  profit- 
able and  have  brought  "the  near  future"  to  our  door. 

It  was  to  the  Madison  Square  Theatre  that  I  went  to 
pester  Mr.  Frohman  for  engagements.  "Hazel  Kirke" 
was  then  running  on  its  long  career.  Here  I  encoun- 
tered old  Mr.  Couldock,  one  of  those  venerable  ones 
who  had  nursed  me  on  his  knee,  a  massive  and  leonine 
man,  who  took  his  profession  very  seriously.  His  part 
of  Dunstan  Kirke,  the  old  miller,  was  a  very  King  Lear, 
and  his  performance  was  superb  and  terrific.  Mr.  Coul- 
dock had  shown  much  favor  to  a  young  man  who  was 
making  his  first  experiment  in  a  theatre.  It  was  this 
youth's  business  in  a  certain  scene  to  carry,  with  two 
other  men,  some  bags  of  flour  across  the  stage.  The  de- 
tail of  his  action  Mr.  Couldock  would  constantly  discuss 
with  him,  so  important  did  he  consider  it  that  it  should 
be  done  in  just  such  a  manner.  The  old  gentleman's 
kindly  and  constant  interest  and  anxiety  encouraged  the 
young  man  to  believe  that  his  career  as  an  actor  was 
dear  to  Mr.  Couldock's  heart,  and  he  foresaw  himself 
under  the  great  player's  protecting  wing  borne  to  the 
very  pinnacle  of  fortune. 

One  day,  however,  the  business  with  the  bag  of  flour 
went  wrong.  Intoxicated  with  Mr.  Couldock's  encourage- 
ment and  favor,  the  wretched  novice  became  light- 
headed. He,  in  a  careless  moment,  dropped  the  bag  of 
flour  onto  the  stage,  and  ruined  the  scene  so  dear  to  the 
old  actor's  heart.  He  grovelled  with  apology,  but  old 
Mr.  Couldock  was  strangely  amiable. 


THE  NEAR  FUTURE  265 

"Come  to  my  room  after  the  play,"  was  all  he  said, 
and  he  actually  laughed  as  he  said  it,  a  curious  light  in 
his  eyes  which  the  young  man  felt  sure  was  the  glow 
of  affection. 

"You're  a  good  boy,"  said  the  still  amiable  Dunstan 
Kirke  after  the  play,  as  he  stood  disrobing  himself  in  his 
dressing-room. 

The  novice  had  again  protested  his  sorrow  for  the 
accident  which  had  ruined  the  scene. 

"You're  a  good  boy  and  ought  to  make  a  fine  actor." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Couldock,"  grinned  the  youth. 
"I  have  been  longing  to  ask  your  advice  about  going  on 
the  stage.  I  was  so  frightened  you  would  be  angry  with 
me." 

"Angry  about  what?"  said  old  Couldock.  "Not  at 
all.  How  much  salary  do  you  get  ? " 

It  was  in  Mr.  Couldock's  power  to  recommend  an 
increase  of  wages,  and  the  pulse  of  the  young  man  beat 
high  as  he  said :  "  Five  dollars  a  week,  Mr.  Couldock." 

"Five  dollars  a  week,  eh?  And  how  do  you  spend 
it?" 

"Spend  it,  Mr.  Couldock?" 

"Yes,  sir!  Spend  it.  You  understand  English,  don't 
you  ?  What  do  you  do  with  it  ?" 

There  was  a  note  of  impatience  in  the  voice  which 
rather  shocked  the  young  hopeful,  but  he  reflected  that 
Mr.  Couldock  was  old  and  his  performance  arduous. 

"Well,  dod  gast  it !     How  do  you  spend  it  ?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Couldock,  sir,"  piped  the  startled  youth, 
"I  pay  a  dollar  a  week  for  my  room." 
'  "A  dollar  for  your  room,  eh  ?    Well,  go  on !    What 
more?" 

"And  three  dollars  for  my  board." 


266  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Three  for  your  board,  that's  four.    What  else?" 

"And  fifty  cents  for  car-fare  and  extras." 

"Fifty  cents  for  car-fare.  Well,  go  onl  That  makes 
four  fifty.  Well?" 

"And  twenty-five  cents  for  laundry." 

"  Four  seventy-five.  Well,  what  else  ?  Dod  gast  it  I 
Hurry  up!  What  more?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Couldock,  that's  all." 

"Then  you  save  twenty-five  cents  a  week?" 

"Well,  not  always,  Mr.  Couldock;  sometimes  I  save 
only  ten  cents." 

"Well,  dod  gast  itl  Say  ten  cents,  then;  that  is,  you 
save  forty  cents  a  month,  eh  ?  Do  you,  or  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Couldock,  sir,  I  do." 

"And  you  want  to  know  my  advice  about  going  on 
the  stage,  eh  ?  Dod  gast  it  1" 

"Yes,  please,  Mr.  Couldock." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  Take  your  forty  cents  a  month, 
and  save  it  up  until  you  have  three  dollars.  Do  you 
understand  me  ? " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Couldock,  yes,  sir!" 

"Until  you  have  three  dollars,  and  then  buy  an  axe 
and  cut  your  dod-gasted  head  off!" 

To  me,  however,  Mr.  Couldock  was  as  gentle  as  a 
lamb  and  regaled  me  with  many  remembrances  of  my 
father  and  mother  in  their  earlier  days.  He  told  me  how 
they,  too,  had  hovered  about  the  threshold  of  oppor- 
tunity, and  I  was  able  to  look  back  through  the  years 
and  see  them  as  young  as  my  sister  and  I  then  were, 
waiting  for  that  same  "near  future"  which  our  lagging 
steps  could  by  no  means  overtake,  and  which  seemed 
forever  in  the  middle  of  next  week.  I  have  always  re- 
membered it,  and  am  still  waiting  for  it  to  turn  up. 


THE  NEAR  FUTURE  267 

One  is  never  aware  of  it  until  it  has  melted  into  the 
past,  and  yet  there  it  is  again  beckoning  just  ahead  of 
you,  full  of  promises,  of  dreams  come  true,  of  castles 
builded  and  of  fortunes  made. 


XXVIII 
RHYME  AND  TIME 

"LovE  is  a  madness,"  says  Rosalind,  "and  deserves 
as  well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip  as  madmen  do."  What 
is  to  be  said,  then,  of  persons  who,  not  having  the  excuse 
of  being  in  love,  indulge  in  the  reprehensible  conduct 
common  to  lovers,  who  indite  verses  to  fictitious  divini- 
ties, and  venture  to  rhyme  while  retaining  their  reason  ? 
If  the  whip  and  the  dungeon  should  be  the  fate  of  the 
one,  surely  the  block  or  the  stake  should  put  an  end  to 
the  other.  Therefore,  am  I  a  fugitive  from  justice  and, 
as  the  criminal  is  drawn  back  to  the  scene  of  his  crime, 
here  am  I  confessing  to  once  having  written  a  love-song. 
Still,  as  a  moral  hangs  thereby,  the  tale  may  justify  the 
ditty.  The  rhyme  having  been  committed,  I  took  it, 
with  some  others,  to  my  friend,  Walter  Slaughter,  the 
leader  of  the  orchestra  of  the  Royalty  Theatre,  London, 
where  I  had  an  engagement  at  the  time.  He  had  told 
me  that  he  wanted  some  lines  to  set  to  music. 

"Here  you  are,"  said  I,  "I  built  this  song  myself." 

"Load,'  does  not  rhyme  with  'bowed,'"  said  Slaughter; 
"' cloud*  would  be  better." 

I  wished  that  I  had  thought  of  "cloud"  myself,  but 
I  had  to  accept  the  amendment. 

Slaughter  came  to  me  a  few  days  after.  "I  have 
written  some  lovely  music  for  your  words,"  said  he, 
"but  now  I  don't  like  the  words,  and  I  want  to  use  the 

music  for  something  else." 

268 


RHYME  AND  TIME  269 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  words?"  said  I. 

"They  seem  rather  senseless,"  replied  Slaughter. 

I  was  a  bit  dashed,  but  I  had  other  troubles  just  then, 
so  I  soon  forgot  all  about  my  song.  As  a  matter  of 
record,  here  is  the  song: 

"  When  cruel  Fate  or  weight  of  years 
The  head  has  lowly  bowed, 
One  mem'ry  dries  the  bitter  tears 
And  lightens  sorrow's  load. 
Oh,  sweeter  than  the  twittering  song 
That  summer  zephyrs  bear, 
The  sound  of  one  dear  word  that  long 
Has  lingered  in  mine  ear. 
When,  in  the  silent  winter  night, 
The  shadows  of  the  firelight 
The  past  express: 
'Will  you  be  mine  ?'  again  I  cry. 
Again  I  hear  her  soft  reply, 
My  darling:  'Yes/ 

"  It  is  the  magic  word  that  opes 
The  cavern  of  the  past, 
Recalling  youth  and  love  and  hopes 
Too  honey-sweet  to  last. 
Once  more  her  trembling  hand  I  take, 
I  press  her  lips  once  more, 
I  hear  her  voice  !     I  start !     I  wake ! 
The  dear  day-dream  is  o'er. 
When  I  at  eve  at  summertide, 
Kneeling,  her  flowery  grave  beside, 
Cry  in  distress, 

With  heavy  heart  the  sad  refrain: 
'Ah,  shall  we  ever  meet  again  ?' 
She  murmurs:  'Yes.'" 

I  thought  the  song  rather  good  and  read  it  frequently. 
Slaughter  was  no  doubt  right  about  "load"  and  "bowed," 


27o  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

but  "twittering  song"  struck  me  as  first-rate.  I  liked 
"summer  zephyrs"  too;  "cavern  of  the  past"  sounded 
tip-top,  and  "magic  word"  was  fine,  recalling  "sesame" 
—  "AH  Baba  and  the  Forty  Thieves."  It  seemed  fraught 
with  associations  of  romance.  However,  I  threw  the 
masterpiece  over  my  shoulder  and  proceeded. 

We  were  busy  at  this  time  rehearsing  a  play  called 
"Out  of  the  Hunt,"  by  Farnie.  Richard  Mansfield  was 
cast  for  a  small  part.  The  leading  comedian  was  J.  G. 
Taylor.  A  number  of  well-known  people  were  in  the 
cast.  We  were  to  open  a  new  theatre  in  Panton  Street, 
which  was  not  ready,  so  we  were  transferred  to  the  Roy- 
alty. Mansfield  was  a  young  man  then,  about  twenty- 
four  I  should  say.  He  was  practically  unknown.  He 
soon  began  to  shine  at  rehearsal.  His  part  was  that  of 
an  old  beau.  J.  G.  Taylor  was  to  play  a  certain  waiter. 
The  play  was  an  adaptation  from  the  French;  Farnie 
was  the  adapter  with  no  pride  of  authorship,  so  he  al- 
lowed Mansfield  a  good  deal  of  liberty  in  the  way  of 
interpolation  and  business.  Day  by  day  the  part  of  the 
old  beau  was  built  up,  especially  in  Taylor's  scenes,  until 
Mansfield's  part  assumed  the  proportions  of  a  leading 
character  and  Taylor's  part,  which  was  the  principal 
comedy  part  of  the  play,  faded  away  into  the  background. 
We  all  began  to  take  notice  of  Mansfield  and  to  per- 
ceive that  his  character  was  going  to  be  the  part  of  the 
play. 

One  day  Taylor  rebelled.  He  told  Farnie  and  Alex- 
ander Henderson,  the  manager  of  the  theatre,  that  he 
was  the  leading  comedian  of  the  company,  and  that 
Mansfield's  part  had  now  become  the  most  important 
personage  in  the  comedy.  He  protested  violently.  Far- 
nie was  in  a  dilemma.  Mansfield's  business  and  additions 


J- 

00 


RHYME  AND  TIME  271 

were  so  clever  and  so  valuable  that  he  deserved  the 
prominence  accorded  to  him.  Taylor  was  an  important 
actor,  and  could  not  be  dispensed  with. 

Mansfield  came  forward.  "Would  Mr.  Taylor  like 
my  part  ?"  said  he. 

Taylor  felt  that,  as  the  principal  comedian,  the  best 
part  belonged  properly  to  him.  He  ought  to  have  Mans- 
field's part. 

Mansfield  handed  it  to  him.  "By  all  means,"  said 
he,  "here  it  is,"  and  he  handed  over  the  manuscript 
covered  with  interpolations,  corrections,  and  business. 

We  resumed  our  rehearsals. 

"You  will  allow  me,"  said  Mansfield  to  Farnie,  "you 
will  allow  me  the  same  privilege  with  this  new  part  you 
were  so  generous  as  to  accord  me  with  the  other  ?  Mr. 
Taylor  has  the  advantage  of  my  suggestions  on  the 
other  character,  you  will  permit  me  to  do  my  best  with 
this?" 

"By  all  means,"  said  Farnie,  and  to  work  we  went 
again. 

Mansfield  built  up  again.  Day  by  day,  little  by  little, 
his  new  part  absorbed  scene  after  scene.  Many  of  his 
scenes  were  with  Taylor,  and  again  his  part  began  to 
excel  Taylor's  part.  In  the  end  Mansfield's  performance 
was  the  play,  as  far  as  the  play  went,  for  it  was  a  failure, 
but  his  work  was  remarkable.  He  played  some  other 
smaller  parts  in  that  theatre,  and  then  he  went  to  Amer- 
ica. I  played  a  few  engagements  in  London  and  the 
provinces,  and  then  I  followed  him.  At  that  time  the 
impression  I  made  was  not  quite  victorious.  A  critic 
wrote:  "Talent  is  seldom  hereditary,  a  lamentable  in- 
stance of  this  is  to  be  seen  at  the  Royalty." 

This  was   not  encouraging  and   seemed  to  fulfil  my 


272  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

father's  predictions.  Still  one  must  live,  even  if  other 
people  do  not  perceive  the  necessity.  If  one  has  a  pain 
in  one  place,  one  always  believes  one  could  bear  it  better 
if  it  were  in  another.  So  to  be  "on  the  go"  from  where 
fortune  frowns  appears  to  be  on  the  way  to  where  that 
fickle  lady  may  smile. 

I  went  to  New  York.  I  could  get  no  employment. 
There  my  resources  were  at  an  end,  so  I  wrote  a  play. 
Having  written  my  play,  I  looked  for  some  one  to  pro- 
duce it.  One  day  I  went  into  a  dramatic  agent's  office — 
Mr.  Spies  on  Union  Square.  He  was  talking  with  a  Mr. 
Fort  who  was  manager  of  the  Academy  of  Music  at 
Baltimore.  I  heard  Fort  declare  that  he  must  have  an 
attraction  at  once  to  play  three  performances  for  "The 
Police  Fund  Benefit"  at  Baltimore,  in  two  weeks  from 
that  day. 

"I  will  do  it,"  said  I. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  asked  Fort. 

I  told  him  who  I  was  and  spoke  of  my  play. 

"How  much  do  you  want  for  yourself  and  play  and 
company  for  three  performances?"  said  Fort. 

I  indulged  in  some  rapid  arithmetic.  "Two  hundred 
dollars,"  said  I. 

"I'll  give  you  three  hundred,"  said  Fort. 

There  were  seven  people  in  the  play.  Myself  and  my 
sister  and  my  friend,  Joseph  Haworth,  were  three.  I 
engaged  the  other  four  and  started  rehearsal. 

We  went  to  Baltimore.  The  theatre  was  crowded 
for  the  benefit  performances.  The  play  went  like  wild- 
fire. I  had  been  my  own  stage-manager,  my  own  busi- 
ness manager;  I  had  played  the  leading  part  and  written 
the  play.  I  now  took  on  myself  the  office  of  press  agent. 
I  went  to  the  office  of  the  Baltimore  Sun,  and  asked  to 


RHYME  AND  TIME  273 

see  the  dramatic  editor.  A  large  man  in  shirt-sleeves 
was  pointed  out  to  me. 

"Has  any  one  been  to  the  Academy  to-night?"  I 
asked  him. 

"I  guess  not,"  said  he. 

"Will  there  be  a  review  of  the  play  there?"  said  I. 

"Who  are  you?"  said  he. 

I  told  him  my  name. 

"What  play  is  it  ?"  asked  the  big  man. 

"'Whose  Are  They?'"  said  I. 

"Who  wrote  it?" 

"I  did." 

"Who  played  the  chief  part  ?" 

"I  did." 

"Who's  the  manager?" 

"I  am." 

"Look  here,"  said  he,  "since  you  wrote  the  play  and 
play  the  chief  part  and  manage  the  show,  you  can  write 
the  notice,"  and  that  large  man  motioned  me  to  a  chair 
and  to  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 

Alas !  I  was  too  ingenuous.  At  a  later  day,  would 
I  not  have  lauded  myself  to  the  skies  and  blown  a  blast 
to  wake  the  heavens  ?  Now  I  blushed  and  stammered 
and  retreated  in  confusion.  I  believe  the  big  man  took 
pity  on  me,  for  a  review  appeared  next  morning  saying 
the  play  was  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  earth. 

Our  fame  spread  to  New  York,  and  I  received  an  offer 
to  open  at  Wallack's  Theatre,  later  the  Star.  We  played 
there  one  week  and  made  money;  we  played  a  second 
week  and — lost  it.  We  then  went  to  Brooklyn  and 
collapsed.  We  were  done  for.  However,  one  John  P. 
Smith,  a  manager  of  the  day,  took  up  our  banner  and 
off  we  went  on  a  tour  the  next  season.  He  changed  the 


274  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

title  of  the  play  to  "Crushed,"  which  proved  ominous, 
for  "crushed"  we  were.  We  went  from  bad  to  worse 
until  we  got  back  to  Baltimore.  The  policemen  who 
acclaimed  us  so  wildly  before  surely  now  would  rally 
to  our  rescue.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Those  policemen  avoided 
us  as  though  we  were  honest  men.  Disaster  overwhelmed 
us.  We  returned  to  New  York.  I  had  not  one  penny  in 
my  pocket.  Smith  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  money,  and 
I  could  not  ask  him  for  anything.  The  company  left 
me  at  the  depot.  Smith  went  off  in  a  cab.  I  stood  be- 
side a  very  large  gripsack,  literally  without  one  cent  in 
the  world.  It  was  Sunday,  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Very  few  people  were  about  in  the  lower 
part  of  New  York,  for  the  depot  was  away  down-town 
then.  A  young  fellow  named  Armstrong  was  the  only 
one  of  the  company  who  stayed  behind. 

"Are  you  going  up-town  ?"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "I'm  waiting  for  a  car.  Armstrong," 
said  I,  "have  you  any  change?" 

"Not  a  nickel,"  said  Armstrong. 

"Then  we'll  have  to  walk,"  said  I,  "for  I  have  none, 
either." 

We  lifted  our  bags — mine  was  an  awful  weight — and 
up  Broadway  on  that  damp,  misty  Sunday  morning  we 
trudged.  The  tramp  was  interminable;  my  bag  bothered 
me  so  I  had  to  stop  and  change  hands  every  block.  Still 
I  was  rather  glad  Armstrong  was  there,  for  misery  loves 
company.  We  walked  to  the  Sturtevant  House  on 
Broadway  and  29th  Street,  where  I  had  always  found 
shelter  under  the  wing  of  the  kindly  proprietor,  Charles 
Leland. 

Weary  and  wet  and  disheartened,  without  funds  and 
without  prospect,  I  entered  the  office.  Sadly  I  reflected 


RHYME  AND  TIME  275 

that  my  hair  needed  cutting;  '  more  sadly  I  reflected 
that  barbers  have  to  be  paid  for  their  services.  I  reg- 
istered my  name  at  the  desk.  My  old  friend,  Mr.  Sco- 
field,  the  clerk,  handed  me  a  letter  with  an  English  post- 
mark. I  opened  it.  It  was  from  Slaughter.  Said  he: 
"I  enclose  a  draft  for  three  pounds,  your  share  from  the 
sale  of  that  song  of  yours." 

Who  shall  say  that  the  muse  is  ungrateful  ?  Who 
shall  say  that  the  rhymester  follows  a  will-o'-the-wisp  ? 
Who  shall  say  that  "loves"  and  "doves"  and  "hearts" 
and  "darts"  and  "kisses"  and  "blisses"  are  for  fools 
and  their  follies  ?  Here  I  had  three  pounds,  the  reward 
of  such  rhyming ! 

"Armstrong,"  said  I,  "we  will  have  our  hair  cut!" 

We  did.  I  asked  Armstrong  to  breakfast  on  the  Amer- 
ican plan.  I  walked  out  into  the  open  air  a  free  man 
once  more.  Three  pounds  !  The  world  was  mine ! 

A  period  of  repose  was  forced  upon  me,  however.  I 
did  not  find  anything  to  do  for  about  a  month;  then  I 
joined  a  company  playing  the  prophetic  repertoire  of 
"Called  Back"  and  "Lost."  Lost  we  were  and  called 
back  we  soon  became.  Cyril  Maude,  Louis  Mann,  and 
other  people,  now  distinguished,  were  minor  members  of 
that  company.  After  much  tribulation  we  landed  in 
Chicago.  We  played  on  the  North  Side  and  lived  at 
a  small  hotel  called  the  Sfea  House.  The  company  had 
not  been  paid  for  a  month,  and  things  looked  quite  hope- 
less; still  we  had  no  prospects,  and  the  only  thing  for 
us  to  do  was  to  stay  on.  At  this  moment  I  received  a 
telegram  from  New  York  offering  me  an  engagement. 

On  what  accidents  does  our  fortune  depend  ?  I  had 
heard  this  play  read  one  day,  and  had  been  frank  enough 
to  say  I  did  not  like  it;  the  other  people  present  offered 


276  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

perfunctory  and  insincere  or  rather  polite  praise.  The 
author  recalled  my  poor  censure  and  sent  for  me  to  play 
the  wicked  nobleman  in  the  drama.  "Fame  awaited 
me!"  "I  must  be  off!"  But  I  had  no  money.  The 
manager  wanted  me  to  stay,  for  I  played  a  leading  part. 
I  declared  I  would  go  at  once.  I  telegraphed,  accept- 
ing the  engagement.  My  friends  in  the  company  begged 
me  not  to  forget  them  in  my  good  fortune,  but  to  recall 
their  many  excellent  qualities  and  their  past  performances 
to  the  various  New  York  managers.  This  I  swore  I 
would  do.  We  sat  up  late  that  night,  considering  how  I 
could  possibly  escape  from  Chicago  with  neither  wings 
nor  greenbacks;  we  were  at  a  deadlock.  The  manager 
declared  he  had  no  money  and  that,  if  I  stayed,  the 
coming  performances  would  enable  him  to  pay  his  people. 
We  knew  better.  Despair  was  on  the  point  of  gnawing 
at  our  hearts  when  one  adorable  old  woman  named 
Annie  Douglas  arose  and  made  this  memorable  remark: 

"You  must  go!"  said  she,  and  she  led  me  aside.  "I 
am  an  old  actress,"  whispered  Annie  Douglas.  "You 
are  young,  and  you  must  not  miss  this  chance.  I  have 
been  in  this  sort  of  company  before,  and  I  am  always 
prepared." 

That  adorable  woman  lifted  the  hem  of  her  dear  old 
frock  and  took  from  her  stocking  a  roll  of  bills  which 
she  proffered  to  me.  What  shall  be  said  of  her  ?  I  pro- 
claimed to  the  waiting  crowd  the  virtues  of  this  most 
excellent  of  comrades.  Much  embracing  followed.  Some- 
body found  the  wherewithal  to  toast  her.  I  declined 
the  dear  Douglas's  proffer.  Then  I  stated  my  determina- 
tion. With  Napoleonic  precision  I  proceeded  to  act. 
I  attacked  the  hotel  proprietor  in  his  lair.  I  arranged 
to  leave  my  hotel  trunk  and  my  two  theatre  trunks  as 


RHYME  AND  TIME  277 

hostages  to  fortune.  I  received  my  railway  fare  and 
some  pocket-money;  I  called  a  cab,  and  amid  sorrow- 
ing and  rejoicing  I  went  my  way. 

I  played  in  "Favette"  and  failed.  I  played  in  another 
play,  "Mona,"  with  Miss  Dauvray,  and  I  met  with 
some  success.  I  was  engaged  then  for  Bronson  Howard's 
new  play,  "One  of  Our  Girls."  I  was  so  bad  at  rehearsal 
that  Frazer  Coulter  was  secured  to  take  my  place.  Sud- 
denly I  began  to  develop  a  bit,  and  was  permitted  to 
play  the  part  of  Captain  Gregory.  Fortune  favored  me 
in  that  character,  and  the  sun  began  to  shine. 


XXIX 
MRS.  MABBITT 

IF  one  may  achieve  immortality  by  inditing  an  essay 
on  roast  pig,  may  another  not  hope  for  a  laurel  leaf  by 
penning  some  remarks  about  a  cook  ?  The  pig  cannot 
be  roasted  without  one  to  roast  it;  a  roastee  demands 
a  roaster,  and  the  excellence  of  the  roast  pig  depends 
entirely  upon  its  being  not  overroasted  nor  under- 
roasted,  but  justly  roasted.  Moliere  elevated  his  cook 
to  the  rostrum  of  the  critic;  a  very  proper  proceeding, 
for  the  critic  should  be  able  to  cook  your  goose  for  you 
in  more  senses  than  one.  The  ultimate  object  of  labor  is 
food;  nothing  can  be  successfully  accomplished  on  an 
empty  stomach.  One  must  work  to  eat,  one  must  eat 
to  work.  "Let  who  will  make  the  laws  so  I  may  make 
the  songs."  But  the  songs  cannot  be  made  by  empty 
men.  No  supper,  no  song  is  as  imperative  as  "no  song, 
no  supper."  No  man  should  make  a  god  of  his  stomach, 
but  he  may  be  pardoned  if  he  makes  a  goddess  of  his 
cook. 

When  I  first  started  housekeeping  in  New  York,  I 
acquired  a  flat  in  Washington  Square,  and  I  invited  my 
brother  Sam  to  come  from  England  to  live  with  me. 
Having  purchased  my  pots  and  pans,  I  bethought  me 
of  a  cook,  and  confided  to  my  brother  my  various  hopes 
and  fears  on  the  weighty  matter.  My  brother  is  a  man 
of  quick  resolves.  I  was  not  surprised  to  receive  a  cable 

from  him  which  said:   "Will  arrive  June  3,  with  cook." 

278 


MRS.  MABBITT  279 

The  cook's  name  was  Mrs.  Mabbitt.  She  had  kept 
house  for  my  brother  in  his  bachelor  chambers  in  Lon- 
don, and,  with  his  assistance,  had,  from  the  humble  posi- 
tion of  charwoman,  climbed  to  the  lofty  pinnacle  of 
cook.  Day  by  day,  week  by  week,  month  by  month, 
she  and  he  had  culled  from  London  Truth,  The  World, 
and  other  weekly  papers  devoted  to  culinary  study  such 
kitchen  lore  as  would  turn  sow's  ears  into  silk  purses, 
or  make  soup  out  of  sawdust.  We  lived  in  clover ! 

Alas !  we  player-folk  are  birds  of  passage,  here  to-day 
and  gone  to-morrow.  Soon  I  had  to  go  on  my  tour  of 
the  country.  One  cannot  dismiss  one's  cook  and  have 
her,  too;  so  I  installed  Mrs.  Mabbitt  in  my  apartment 
and  went  my  way.  Now  Mrs.  Mabbitt  was  no  ordinary 
woman.  She  was  rather  small  but  of  vast  dignity  in  a 
quiet  way,  precise  of  speech,  jet-black  hair  which  she 
dressed  in  a  very  old-fashioned  style  with  six  small 
ringlets  falling  down  on  each  side  of  her  face;  a  lace  cap 
on  her  head,  mittens  on  her  hands,  and  a  manner  that 
put  people  in  their  places  at  once.  She  suffered  greatly 
from  rheumatism,  was  indeed  a  martyr  to  it;  but  pro- 
ceeded with  great  fortitude  to  lift  heavy  utensils,  and  to 
mix  and  fix  and  sort  and  sift,  as  was  her  nature  to. 
While  I  was  away  for  about  six  months,  Mrs.  Mabbitt 
resided  in  solitary  state  in  my  superior  new  apartment. 
The  rumor  became  rife  in  the  neighborhood  that  she 
was  a  wealthy  English  lady,  some  even  said  a  person  of 
title.  Her  rheumatic  tendency  increased  apace.  My 
physician,  who  attended  her,  declared  that  she  must  be 
out  in  the  air  for  an  hour  or  two  each  day.  Walking  was 
difficult  for  Mrs.  Mabbitt,  so  I  wrote  to  an  old  coach- 
man, an  ancient  friend  of  mine,  and  bade  him  call  for 
Mrs.  Mabbitt  two  or  three  times  a  week  and  take  her 


280  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

for  an  outing  in  the  park.  These  excursions  established 
rumor  more  firmly  in  the  conclusion  that  Mrs.  Mabbitt 
was  a  person  of  distinction. 

At  length,  the  season  over,  my  brother  and  I  returned 
and  Mrs.  Mabbitt  resumed  her  cooking.  In  these  days 
her  duties  and  her  growing  infirmity  gave  her  little  time 
and  less  inclination  to  take  the  air.  At  last  I  had  to  in- 
sist on  her  going  out  with  my  coachman  friend.  My 
brother  objected  that  the  large  carriage,  and  the  two 
prancing  steeds,  created  too  much  stir  for  one's  cook, 
and  bewailed  this  state  of  affairs  to  my  physician.  "I 
can't  see  any  harm  in  it,"  said  that  scientist,  "so  long  as 
your  brother  does  not  go  with  her." 

The  time  came,  however,  when  Mrs.  Mabbitt  flatly 
refused  to  go  alone  or  to  go  at  all.  I  saw  myself  faced 
with  the  alternative  of  either  losing  my  cook  from  in- 
anition and  lack  of  fresh  air,  or  of  having  to  take  her 
out  driving  myself.  I  chose  the  latter  course  and  might 
be  seen  some  fine  days  prancing  through  the  Park  with 
a  distinguished  old  lady  by  my  side  balancing  an  ante- 
diluvian bonnet  on  her  head  and  early  Victorian  ringlets 
shading  her  cheeks.  Our  conversation  was  limited  but 
instructive  and  culinary. 

I  had  plenty  to  think  about  and  needed  the  fresh  air 
myself,  so  I  killed  two  birds  with  one  stone.  My  brother 
was  much  disturbed  and  protested  that  the  proceedings 
were  unusual !  However,  I  had  read,  and  did  daily  read, 
much  tearful  talk  about  the  servant  question,  and  I 
congratulated  myself  that  I  knew  how  to  catch  a  cook 
and  keep  her,  too.  It  is  just  to  this  pinnacle  of  self-adula- 
tion that  fortune  delights  to  lead  a  man  in  order  to  dash 
him  down.  Mrs.  Mabbitt  was  a  woman  of  sixty-five. 
She  was  a  spinster,  calling  herself  Mrs.  out  of  some 


MRS.  MABBITT  281 

mistaken  idea  that  the  married  state  is  more  cook-like 
and  secure.  At  the  precise  moment  when  I  was  assured 
that  my  fortifications  surrounded  Mrs.  Mabbitt,  and 
hemmed  her  in,  when  I  was  convinced  that  all  the  ties 
of  interest  and  affection,  and  the  considerations  of  age 
and  fortune  had  riveted  her  to  me  with  hooks  of  steel, 
she  eloped,  ran  away,  fled,  with  the  youthful  grocer- 
boy  who  peddled  groceries  to  us  in  Washington  Square ! 

A  brief  note  announced  the  tragedy.  She  had  gone 
to  California.  The  grocer-boy  was  twenty-four,  Mrs. 
Mabbitt  was  sixty-five.  We,  my  brother  and  I,  were 
crushed.  The  coachman  friend  came  that  morning  to 
take  Mrs.  Mabbitt  for  her  drive,  but  instead  conducted 
my  brother  and  myself  to  our  club,  where,  with  gloomy 
countenances,  we  contemplated  our  breakfast. 

For  a  while  our  establishment  languished  while  we 
picked  up  food  here  and  there.  We  tried  cooks  of  sundry 
colors,  but  they  came  and  cooked  and  went  away.  They 
could  not  and  would  not  fall  into  the  Mabbitt  manner, 
and  any  other  manner  to  us  was  useless  and  abhorrent. 
Thus  our  cookless  existence  meandered  on  for  a  melan- 
choly and  never-to-be-forgotten  month,  when  one  day 
we  received  a  telegram  from  a  Far  Western  town  which 
said:  "Husband  has  deserted  me,  please  send  railway 
fare  to  get  home." 

Oh,  idiotic  grocer-boy!  To  have  found  this  pearl  of 
women  and  to  prove  so  much  a  swine!  This  treasure, 
kings  might  envy,  to  grasp  and  cast  away !  This  flower 
of  cooks  !  This  paragon  of  roasters,  of  broilers,  of  fricas- 
see-makers !  This  queen  of  pudding-mixers  I 

Well,  back  came  Mrs.  Mabbitt,  but  no  more  the  same. 
She  had  aged  ten  years.  We  asked  for  no  confidences, 
but  gladly  took  her  to  our  hearts.  Yet  she  insisted  on 


282  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

telling  all  the  circumstances  of  her  poor  courtship  and 
her  pitiful  betrayal.  The  grocer-boy  had  heard  the 
stories  of  her  high  degree,  of  her  wealth,  of  her  noble 
lineage,  and  had  thought,  despite  her  denials,  that  he 
was  marrying  at  least  into  the  peerage.  The  poor  woman 
had  no  money,  having  sent  all  she  earned  each  week  to 
her  relatives  abroad.  The  heartless  cheesemonger  had 
borrowed  her  last  wages  to  buy  the  tickets  out  West, 
swearing  that  he  loved  her  for  herself  alone.  One  week 
of  illusion  and  he  had  demanded  more  coin,  then  the 
bubble  burst. 

For  a  little  while  Mrs.  Mabbitt  struggled  to  get  back 
to  her  old  duties,  but  it  was  useless;  she  soon  collapsed, 
her  rheumatic  ailment  conquering  her  strength.  We 
placed  her  in  an  ancient  ladies'  home;  there  she  lingered 
a  while,  and  passed  away. 

The  grocer-boy,  I  pray  Heaven,  is  gone — not  where 
people  cook,  but  where  they  are  cooked ! 

There  is  a  churchyard  in  an  English  village  where  some 
grateful  poet  thus  pays  tribute  to  one  of  Mrs.  Mabbitt's 
quality : 

"Here  lies  Moll  Britt,  who  cooked  such  meals 
As  took  the  devil  by  the  heels; 
You  simply  couldn't  be  a  sinner 
If  old  Moll  Britt  had  cooked  your  dinner. 
She'd  roast  a  joint  six  times  in  seven 
*Twould  make  you  think  you  were  in  Heaven. 
Let's  hope  she  tends  the  kitchen  fire 
Where  good  cooks  feed  the  angel  choir." 

What  fitter  epitaph  for  Mrs.  Mabbitt  ? 

It  is  frequently  the  case  that  professors  view  the  world 
as  it  wags  from  the  point  of  view  of  their  own  specialty. 
A  friend  of  mine  who  purveys  ancient  and  decrepit 


MRS.  MABBITT  283 

anecdotes  tells  me  frequently  that  Mr.  Clarkson,  the 
wig-maker,  on  being  asked  his  opinion  of  a  great  Shakes- 
pearian production,  declared  it  to  be  superb.  "You 
couldn't  see  a  join,"  said  he,  meaning  thereby  that  the 
line  where  the  wigs  of  the  actors  joined  their  foreheads 
was  invisible. 

My  friend  also  assures  me  that  a  certain  clog-dancer 
on  witnessing  Charles  Coghlan  play  Othello  remarked: 
"Oh,  yes,  Charley  Coghlan  he's  all  right,  but  give  Charley 
Coghlan  a  breakdown  and  where  is  he?" 

Mrs.  Mabbitt  was  no  less  absorbed  in  her  art.  She 
perceived  life  through  the  medium  of  a  saucepan  and 
noted  mankind  by  the  lore  of  the  cook-book. 

Sometimes  I  would  lure  Mrs.  Mabbitt  to  the  theatre 
to  see  me  play.  Holding  her  in  reverence  as  I  did,  I  was 
usually  eager  to  know  how  she  liked  what  I  had  done. 
The  first  play  of  mine  that  she  saw  had  a  breakfast  scene 
in  the  first  act,  and  when  I  approached  Mrs.  Mabbitt 
for  her  opinion,  she  said  merely:  "Well,  sir,  Fm  glad  I 
didn't  cook  that  breakfast."  The  rest  of  the  play  seemed 
to  have  escaped  her  notice. 

On  another  occasion  there  was  a  small  mention  in  the 
comedy  of  household  bills,  but  all  the  comment  we  could 
extract  from  Mrs.  Mabbitt  concerning  a  tragic  love-tale 
and  much  excellent  comedy  was:  "Well  that  butcher 
was  a  cheat  and  no  mistake."  The  pangs  of  the  lovers, 
the  labors  of  the  comedians,  my  own  desperate  efforts 
to  please  might  as  well  never  have  been,  so  far  as  Mrs. 
Mabbitt  was  concerned. 

Of  course  it  is  this  concentration  on  one  idea  that 
makes  great  people.  The  small  man  scatters  his  energies; 
the  great  man  does  one  thing  better  than  the  rest  of 
mankind.  To  Mrs.  Mabbitt  man  was  hungry  or  re- 


284  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

plenished;  things  were  cooked  or  uncooked,  good  to 
eat  or  not  good  to  eat,  well  done  or  underdone.  The 
whirligig  of  time  and  fortune  concerned  her  not.  That 
fate  is  a  fiddler,  life  a  dance,  disturbed  not  the  precision 
and  perfection  of  her  recipes.  Her  creed  was  "Love  and 
honor  thy  cook  that  thy  days  may  be  long  in  the  land," 
and  her  motto  was,  "Dinner's  ready." 


XXX 
WHY! 

THAT  curious  perversity  which  demands  that  we  shall 
impress  our  particular  convictions  upon  each  and  every 
one  of  our  acquaintance  was  no  doubt  implanted  in  our 
nature  with  most  wise  intent.  Through  this  force  has 
knowledge  prevailed,  for  each  new  assertion  has  provoked 
not  only  argument,  but  opposition  in  the  course  of  which 
error  has  been  laid  bare  and  truth  has  been  established. 

The  most  ordinary  experience  will  recall  occasions 
when  we,  or  another  thus  afflicted,  have  felt  impelled  as 
by  a  resistless  power  to  insist  upon  some  quite  unimpor- 
tant opinion  and,  heedless  of  evidence,  of  rebuff,  and  of 
disinclination  to  pursue  the  subject  on  the  part  of  our 
opponent,  we  have  driven  him  from  indifference  to  con- 
flict and  from  conflict  to  anger,  and  finally  have  de- 
nounced him  for  his  obstinacy  if  we  have  not  reflected 
on  his  honesty. 

"Ta,"  subsequently  "Daddies"  and  eventually  "Sam," 
with  that  truly  supernatural  wisdom  for  which  he  has 
been  conspicuous,  early  discovered  a  means  of  over- 
whelming such  disturbers  of  the  peace,  a  knowledge  so 
serviceable  to  the  sanity  of  mankind  as  to  be  worthy  of 
record. 

Like  most  great  discoveries,  the  thing  is  so  simple 
thai  when  made  manifest  one  is  astonished  that  one 
never  thought  of  it  oneself. 

285 


286  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

The  method  consists  of  two  parts : 

A.  The  constant   repetition  after  each  assertion  of 
the  one  word,  "Why?" 

This  leads  the  foe  to  exhaust  himself  in  reckless  and 
self-destroying  exposition,  explanation,  and  confusion. 

B.  The   steady,   ceaseless,   cold-blooded,    remorseless 
insistence  upon  one  statement,  unaccompanied  by  com- 
ment and  injected  into  the  enemy's  remarks  with  ex- 
treme cunning  and  persistency  just  at  the  moment  when 
he  considers  himself  victorious.     Said  a  fellow  traveller 
to  Sam  one  day: 

"The  manners  of  the  English  people  are  inferior  to 
the  manners  of  the  Americans." 

"Why?"  said  Sam. 

The  victim  proceeded  to  declare  that  that  reserve 
for  which  Englishmen  are  said  to  be  noted  was  in  reality 
founded  upon  self-esteem,  which  was  a  quality  offensive 
in  itself  and  which  caused  those  with  whom  they  came 
in  contact  to  feel  aggrieved  at  an  affectation  of  supreme 
excellence. 

"Why? "said  Sam. 

"Well,"  continued  the  unsuspecting  one,  "you  must 
admit  that  Englishmen  as  a  class  assume  an  air  of  supe- 
riority." 

"Why?"  inquired  Sam. 

"Because  they  think  they  are  superior,"  said  the 
enemy,  waxing  hot.  "They  seem  to  regard  themselves 
as  the  lords  of  creation." 

"Why  ?"  murmured  Sam. 

"That's  just  the  annoying  part  of  it !"  cried  the  man 
of  opinions.  "There  is  no  reason  for  such  a  pose.  Your 
Englishman  simply  takes  it  for  granted  that  you  are  an 
ass,  and  that  he  is  not." 


From  a  painting  by  Cecil  Clark  Davis 

SAM    SOTHERN,    1916 


WHY!  287 

"Why?"  said  Sam. 

"Because  he  is  so  infernally  obtuse  that  he  cannot 
see  beyond  the  end  of  his  own  nose!"  exclaimed  the 
man,  roused  by  now  to  a  pitch  of  indignation  and  scarcely 
able  to  articulate  with  intelligence.  "I  tell  you  it  won't 
do !  People  won't  stand  for  it." 

"Why?  "said  Sam. 

"They  don't  have  to!"  exploded  the  man.  "In  this 
country  all  men  are  equal,  and  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  I  am  as  good  as  the  next  man." 

"Why?"  said  Sam. 

"Because  this  is  a  government  of  the  people,  by  the 
people,  and  for  the  people." 

"Why?"  said  Sam  again. 

"We  fought  for  it !  We  bled  for  it !  We  died  for  it !" 
cried  the  man,  "and  no  man  alive  shall  say  to  me  that 
I  am  not  the  equal  of  any  man  on  God's  footstool." 

"Why?"  said  Sam. 

"The  Constitution  declares  it!"  cried  the  man.  "The 
Fourth  of  July  announces  it !  and  I  say  that  no  man  can 
tell  me  that  I — I  would  like  to  hear  any  man  say — 
Fetch  me  the  man  who  will !" 

Sam  now  brought  into  play  plan  B,  which  has  the 
effect  of  changing  the  train  of  thought,  but  still  keeps 
the  antagonist  occupied  to  his  undoing. 

"The  best  fishing  is  in  the  Thames !"  said  Sam. 

The  man  looked  stunned  at  this  sudden  turn  of  events. 

"What's  that?"  said  he. 

"The  best  fishing,"  said  Sam,  "is  in  the  Thames." 

"The  Thames  isn't  big  enough  to  hold  a  fish,"  said 
the  man  with  a  fine  scorn.  "Why,  there's  a  creek  near 
my  home  which  would  hold  all  the  fish  in  England. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Hudson  River?" 


288  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"The  best  fishing  is  in  the  Thames,"  repeated  Sam. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  man,  "I'll  take  you  for  some 
tarpon-fishing  in  Florida.  You  don't  know  what  a  fish 
is  until  you  hook  a  tarpon." 

"The  best  fishing  is  in  the  Thames,"  sighed  Sam,  as 
though  the  man's  ignorance  was  becoming  a  trifle  weari- 
some. 

"The  Thames  nothing !"  said  the  man.  "The  Thames 
isn't  a  river  at  all !  It's  a  leak  in  the  ground.  Look 
here,"  and  he  leaned  over  and  placed  his  hands  on  Sam's 
knees,  "I'll  take  you  up  to  the  Saint  Lawrence  River  and 
show  you  some  salmon.  When  you  have  had  a  forty- 
pound  salmon  on  a  fly-rod " 

Sam  removed  the  man's  hands  from  his  knees  with 
much  gentleness  and  dusted  his  trousers  carefully. 

"The  best  fishing  is  in  the  Thames,"  said  he. 

"Why,  just  off  little  old  New  York,"  said  the  man, 
"I  will  show  you  some  sea-bass  that  will  make  your 
hair  gray.  Say!"  said  he,  becoming  sarcastic,  "did  you 
ever  see  a  fish  outside  of  a  sardine  tin  ?  Why,  I've  watched 
the  people  in  London  fishing  in  the  round  pond  in  Kensing- 
ton Gardens  catching  little  minnows  and  putting  them  in 
a  pickle  bottle.  At  it  all  day  long.  That's  your  English 
fishing.  The  only  decent  fishing  in  Europe  is  in  Norway. 
Any  man  who  knows  anything  about  fishing  will  tell 
you  that.  You  may  catch  a  brook-trout  once  in  a  while 
in  Scotland,  and  they  tell  me  a  man  once  hooked  a  salmon 
in  the  Tyne.  I  believe  there  was  a  time  when  you  could 
catch  codfish  in  the  Channel,  and  there  are  bloaters  at 
Yarmouth.  But  I'm  talking  about  sport.  Understand 
me,  I'm  a  fisherman;  I  have  fished  all  over  the  world, 
and  I  know  what  fish  is.  I  can  cast  a  fly  five  hundred 
yards,  and  light  on  a  ten-cent  piece.  I  began  to  fish 


WHY!  289 

before  you  were  born,  and  I'll  guarantee  to  show  you 
more  fish  in  half  an  hour  than  you  can  find  in  England 
in  six  years/' 

Here  the  man  paused  and  looked  about  him.  It  truly 
seemed  that  he  had  talked  down  all  opposition.  There 
was  a  pause. 

Sam  smoked  sadly  for  a  few  moments. 

"I  guess  when  we  talk  fish  I'm  all  there,"  said  the 
man,  and  he  rose  and  put  on  his  hat. 

Sam  blew  some  smoke  at  the  ceiling. 

"The  best  fishing  is  in  the  Thames,"  said  he. 

The  man  sat  down  again,  his  countenance  working 
spasmodically.  He  made  one  or  two  efforts  to  speak. 
At  length  he  cried  out: 

"Have  you  ever  shot  a  moose?" 

Sam  smoked  in  silence. 

"Ah !  I  thought  not,"  said  the  man.  "Nor  a  wild- 
cat, eh  ?  Nor  a  buffalo,  nor  yet  a  grizzly  bear  ?  ^They 
don't  have  them  things  in  England,  do  they?" 

"The  best  fishing  is  in  the  Thames,"  said  Sam. 

The  eyes  of  the  man  became  bloodshot,  his  breath 
came  and  went  quickly,  his  hands  twitched,  he  spoke 
with  much  effort. 

"Well,  I  have!"  he  said  hoarsely.  "I  have  hunted 
in  the  Rockies,  and  I  have  fought  a  black  bear  with  my 
two  hands  and  won  out.  How's  that  for  high — ?"  said 
he.  "That's  going  some,  I  take  it." 

"The  best  fishing  is  in  the  Thames,"  said  Sam. 

"By  the  great  God!"  said  the  sportsman,  "I  say  and 
I  don't  care  who  knows  it,  that  this  country  beats  the 
world  when  it  comes  to  big  game.  I'd  like  to  see  the 
man  who  will  say  'no'  to  that.  I'll  bet  my  boots  that 
I'll  show  you  more  real  sport  in  a  fortnight  than  you  can 


290  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

see  in  Europe  if  you  live  to  be  as  old  as  Methuselah!" 
and  he  smacked  his  knee  a  great  smack  and  dashed 
his  cigar  onto  the  floor.  He  kicked  his  chair  vehemently 
and  shook  a  large  finger  in  Sam's  eye.  "And  don't  you 
forget  it !"  said  he. 

Sam  gazed  at  him  as  though  he  were  a  great  distance 
away. 

"Huh  !"  said  the  man,  and,  going  to  the  door,  he  looked 
back  in  triumph. 

"The  best  fishing  is  in  the  Thames,"  said  Sam. 

The  man  tried  to  speak,  but  he  found  no  words.  His 
mouth  opened  and  shut,  he  swallowed  with  difficulty  and 
rushed  from  the  room. 

"The  best  fishing  is  in  the  Thames,"  said  Sam. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  Sam  made  this  statement 
without  due  regard  for  veracity.  To  go  a-fishing  is  not 
of  necessity  to  catch  fish,  nor  is  the  catching  of  fish  the 
only  pleasure  in  fishing;  else  would  the  toilers  in  fish- 
ing-fleets exist  in  a  very  paradise  piscatorial. 

No,  the  true  joy  of  fishing  consists,  as  does  all  other 
true  joy,  in  anticipation.  The  struggle  of  the  finny 
victim  over  and  the  prey  landed,  a  kind  of  sorrow  per- 
vades the  gentle  angler.  The  hours  of  preparation,  the 
search  for  the  early  worm,  the  skilful  manufacture  of 
the  exquisite  fly,  the  patient  waiting  accompanied  by 
contemplation,  the  murmurs  of  summer,  and  the  whisper 
of  the  stream — to  these  the  bloody  business  of  fish-catch- 
ing is  subservient. 

So  when  Sam  declared  that  the  best  fishing  was  in 
the  Thames,  he  meant  that  the  Thames,  for  him,  was 
the  best  place  wherein  to  fish;  that  is,  to  go  a-fishing. 
Like  many  another  Thames  fisherman,  he  would  consider 
one  fish  in  a  week  a  sufficient  reward. 


WHY!  291 

It  was  observed  on  one  occasion,  when  a  river-party 
had  enjoyed  some  days  of  boating,  punting,  and  so  forth, 
that  Sam,  accompanied  by  a  very  pretty  damsel,  sat, 
with  admirable  tenacity,  in  a  punt,  casting  his  line 
patiently  hour  after  hour.  No  bite  responded  to  his 
blandishments,  and  day  in  and  day  out  to  inquiries  he 
would  smilingly  reply: 

"No,  not  a  bite/* 

It  was  noticed  that  neither  he  nor  his  lovely  com- 
panion ever  indulged  in  conversation.  She  looked  at 
Sam;  Sam  looked  at  the  river.  The  river  whispered; 
the  sun  smiled;  the  rain  fell;  silence  reigned. 

"Why  do  you  take  that  girl  out  with  you?"  said  a 
friend.  "We  all  think  she  is  so  stupid;  she  never  opens 
her  lips." 

"That's  just  it,"  replied  Sam.  "She's  so  pretty  to 
look  at,  and  she  does  not  disturb  the  fish." 

"But  there  are  no  fish,"  said  the  friend. 

"No,"  said  Sam,  "but  that  doesn't  interfere  with  the 
fishing." 


XXXI 
THE  OLD  LYCEUM  THEATRE 

"WHERE  are  they  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces?"  The 
Lyceum  Theatre,  on  Fourth  Avenue  opposite  the  Ash- 
land House,  is  now  but  a  memory.  For  sixteen  years 
it  was  my  home  actually,  for  I  lived  there  constantly 
in  spirit — even  when  I  was  away,  ever  contemplating 
what  I  would  produce  there  on  my  return.  For  sixteen 
years  I  brought  out  there  a  new  play  each  summer  under 
the  direction  of  my  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  Daniel 
Frohman.  I  grew  there  from  boyhood  to  manhood. 
There  I  made  many  of  my  closest  friendships,  and  there 
most  of  the  comedy,  farce,  and  tragedy  of  my  existence 
had  its  genesis  in  the  real  and  in  the  mimic  world.  I 
was  twenty-three  when  I  began  to  play  there;  I  was 
thirty-nine  when  I  left  there,  never  to  return.  I  watched 
the  theatre  building,  wondering  whether  I  should  ever 
act  in  it;  I  watched  it  being  pulled  down  by  a  wrecking 
concern,  sad  that  I  should  never  play  in  it  again. 

"Where  are  they  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces?"  In 
front  of  the  house  and  behind  the  curtain,  Time  has  been 
busy  with  his  scythe.  In  sixteen  years,  Death  has  had 
time  to  gather  a  heavy  harvest. 

In  1885,  therefore,  it  was  with  much  acceleration  of 
my  pulse  that  one  evening,  coming  out  of  my  modest 
lodging,  I  saw  right  before  my  eyes  my  own  name  in 
letters  six  feet  high.  I  was  a  star !  I  had,  so  to  speak, 

blossomed  during  the  night.     While  I   slept,  the  bill- 

292 


THE  OLD  LYCEUM  THEATRE  293 

board  man,  with  paste  and  broom,  had  labelled  me  as 
"valuable  goods.  Fragile!  This  side  up  with  care." 
I  stood  before  these  giant  letters  and  reflected  upon 
the  power  of  print  and  the  bubble-like  quality  of  reputa- 
tion. Then  I  wended  my  way  to  Daniel  Frohman  and 
said:  "The  letters  are  too  big;  I  can  never  live  up  to 
them." 

Managers  are  optimistic.    "We  will  try,"  said  he. 

I  had  been  two  years  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre  in  the 
company  of  Miss  Helen  Dauvray.  Fortune  and  Miss 
Dauvray  had  been  kind  to  me.  I  had  proceeded  toward 
a  modest  success.  My  brother  Sam  had  joined  me  in 
America,  having  just  finished  his  schooling  in  Paris. 
He  brought  with  him  two  dogs:  Death,  a  bulldog,  and 
Trap,  a  fox-terrier.  One  day  I  brought  to  my  rooms  in 
23d  Street  a  box  of  old  manuscripts,  mostly  copies  of 
"Lord  Dundreary,"  and  others  of  my  father's  repertoire. 
Death  and  Trap  and  Sam  stood  by  and  looked  on  idly 
while  I,  as  idly,  looked  over  the  plays.  Suddenly  Trap 
flew  at  a  heap  of  manuscripts  and  seized  a  printed  book. 
We  tried  to  get  it  from  him.  He  dashed  about  the  room, 
as  fox-terriers  will,  under  the  bed  and  over  the  bed, 
waiting,  watching,  fleeing.  Death,  an  unwieldy  fellow, 
began  to  take  notice  and  amble  after  us  as  we  pursued 
Trap.  My  landlady  opened  the  door.  Out  went  Trap, 
Death  after  him,  nearly  upsetting  my  landlady.  My 
brother  and  I  rushed  after  the  dogs.  Trap  headed  down 
23d  Street  direct  to  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  play  in  mouth. 
In  and  out  of  cabs  and  cars,  pedestrians  and  jehus,  that 
wonderful  dog  went  directly  to  the  box-office  of  the 
theatre. 

Frank  Bunce,  the  business  manager,  beheld  him. 
"What  has  he  got  there?"  said  he. 


294  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"A  play,"  said  I. 

"Does  he  want  me  to  read  it  ?"  said  Bunce. 

"If  you  please,"  I  replied. 

"Take  it  up-stairs  to  Mr.  Frohman,"  said  the  busi- 
ness manager. 

'Twas  done.  Frohman  read  it.  He  accepted  it  and 
produced  it.  The  play  had  been  written  twenty  years 
before  for  my  father  by  Madison  Morton  and  Robert 
Reece.  They  called  it  "Trade/*  Frohman  christened 
it  "The  Highest  Bidder."  The  hero  was  an  auctioneer 
who  fell  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  a  haughty  baronet; 
hence  the  conflict  between  trade  and  birth.  The  play 
was  a  great  success  and  started  both  Dan  Frohman  and 
myself  on  the  waters  of  prosperity.  "Out  of  the  mouths 
of  dogs  cometh  wisdom  !" 

The  structure  and  the  dialogue  of  "Trade"  was  rather 
old-fashioned  and  stilted.  David  Belasco,  the  stage- 
manager  of  the  Lyceum,  took  it  in  hand  to  doctor  it 
and  produce  it.  Belasco  and  I  worked  with  the  fervor 
and  enthusiasm  of  youth.  We  both  enjoyed  our  work; 
we  were  both  indefatigable.  A  great  deal  of  the  dialogue 
I  wrote  myself  as  the  days  of  rehearsal  went  by.  I  was 
allowed  great  liberty  in  that  respect.  LeMoyne  and 
the  other  actors  were  good  comrades,  and  all  went  as 
happily  as  could  be.  We  all  fancied  we  were  rather 
clever,  when  one  day  Mr.  Frohman  came  to  see  how  we 
were  getting  on.  The  very  fires  of  enthusiasm  consumed 
us;  we  stood  panting  and  exhausted  before  our  manager, 
strong  in  the  consciousness  of  work  well  done. 

"Awful!"  said  he.  "It  is  simply  awful!  The  thing 
will  be  a  shocking  failure!" 

Printing  six  feet  high !  Much  talk  about  the  com- 
ing debut  of  a  new  star;  much  affectionate  reminis- 


THE  OLD  LYCEUM  THEATRE  295 

cence  in  generously  inclined  newspapers  of  that  new 
star's  old  father.  "These  things  have  to  be  lived  up  to. 
At  it  again !"  Sam  and  I  and  the  two  dogs  and  Belasco 
and  our  sympathetic  crew;  day  and  night  did  we  rehearse 
and  write  and  discuss.  One  scene,  the  crucial  scene  of 
the  play,  concerned  an  auction  of  the  proud  father's 
estate.  The  hero,  the  despised  auctioneer,  buys  in  the 
property  through  an  agent  who  bids  on  the  stage.  "Go- 
ing! going!  gone!"  cries  the  hero  in  the  auctioneer's 
box. 

"Who  has  bought  the  Larches?"  weeps  the  heroine. 

"I !"  says  the  hero. 

Consternation !  Victory !  Defeat  of  the  villain !  End 
of  the  act ! 

This  scene  was  very  intricate  and  what  we  call  "liney"; 
twelve  or  fourteen  different  people  had  to  talk  constantly 
in  it;  extra  people  had  to  shout  on  exact  cues  approval 
or  disapproval,  the  thing  had  to  go  like  clockwork.  The 
man  working  it  out  might  see  his  way  to  some  successful 
consummation,  but  to  an  onlooker,  what  with  interrup- 
tions, repetitions,  pauses  to  write  things  down  or  argue 
about  them,  the  prospect  must  have  been  hopeless,  and 
the  future  black  with  disaster.  Since  Mr.  Frohman  had 
said  "Awful!"  we  had  worked  like  so  many  devils.  I 
had  rewritten  many  scenes,  especially  had  I  labored  at 
the  auction  scene.  So  much  had  it  been  changed  and 
added  to  that  when  the  dress  rehearsal  came  I  had  to 
read  the  scene  from  my  pages  of  manuscript  placed 
among  papers  on  my  auctioneer's  desk.  I  had  to  pre- 
tend to  drink  champagne  during  this  scene.  Refresh- 
ments are  being  handed  about  at  this  particular  auc- 
tion; my  clerk,  observing  my  distraction  and  grief,  plies 
me  with  glasses  of  wine.  I  insisted  on  having  real  cham- 


296  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

pagne,  so  that  we  would  get  the  real  "pop"  when  the 
cork  was  knocked  out.  This  pleased  the  rest  of  the  cast; 
at  the  dress  rehearsal  the  scene  was  played  with  enthu- 
siasm. All  the  characters  and  the  extra  people,  the  stage- 
hands, the  scene-painter,  the  stage-manager,  when  Jack 
Hammerton  said  "I!"  felt  we  had  earned  each  other's 
esteem  and  admiration.  The  third  and  last  act  was  re- 
hearsed. This  consisted  chiefly  of  love-scenes  between 
the  bashful  hero  and  the  lovely  heroine.  "'Tis  love  that 
makes  the  world  go  round,"  said  I  to  myself.  These 
scenes,  since  there  were  no  lovers  in  front  to  experience 
the  gentle  throes  and  share  the  sweet  madness,  went 
sadly  enough  at  this  dress  rehearsal.  When  all  was  said 
and  done  and  Jack  Hammerton  had  won  the  heroine, 
had  bestowed  his  first  kiss  upon  her  pouting  lips,  we 
stood  once  more  expectant  of  approval.  Mr.  Frohman 
came  down  the  aisle  of  the  theatre  to  the  footlights. 
There  stood  the  sweet  sweetheart  of  the  play;  there  the 
delightful  old  comedy  friend,  LeMoyne;  there  the  en- 
thusiastic and  conquering  hero;  there  the  gratified  stage- 
manager,  Belasco. 

"Well,"  said  I,  my  bosom  swelling  with  certain  con- 
fidence that  the  six-foot  printing  was  not  all  in  vain — 
"well,  how  now?  What  do  you  think  now?" 

"Awful!"  said  Frohman.  "It  will  be  a  frightful 
failure!" 

Belle  Archer,  the  heroine,  faded  away  in  tears;  Archer, 
her  husband  in  real  life,  and  the  wicked  baronet  of  the 
play,  muttered  as  only  wicked  baronets  can;  LeMoyne 
began  to  talk  about  the  palmy  days  of  the  drama;  Be- 
lasco alluded  to  the  marvellous  climate  of  California.  For 
one  moment  my  heart  sank  within  me.  Mr.  Frohman 
was  retreating  up  the  aisle.  He  saw  his  first  production 


THE  OLD  LYCEUM  THEATRE          297 

in  his  new  theatre  a  fiasco.  Let  us  respect  his  reflections 
and  draw  a  curtain  over  his  grief. 

I  was  up  with  the  lark.  "Trap,"  said  I,  as  that  rest- 
less fox-terrier  jumped  onto  my  bed — "Trap,"  said  I, 
"you  selected  this  play." 

"Bow-wow!"  said  that  animal  with  extreme  con- 
fidence. 

"Boo-hoo!"  boomed  Death,  the  bulldog,  in  a  deeper 
note,  as  who  should  say:  "Me  too!" 

This  was  inspiring.  Up  and  out  and  to  it  again !  Some 
few  final  touches,  some  few  words  of  advice,  and  some 
parting  instructions  on  the  eve  of  battle,  and  we  were 
in  for  it. 

The  night  was  upon  us.  There  we  were  playing  the 
play.  The  audience  was  kind  and  generous.  The  first 
act,  however,  went  quietly.  The  exposition  was  a  bit 
long,  but  one  amusing  scene  at  a  breakfast-table  excited 
much  laughter,  thanks  greatly  to  the  excellent  comedy 
of  Mr.  LeMoyne.  The  curtain  went  down  to  one 
call. 

Where  was  Mr.  Frohman?  He  did  not  come  behind 
with  encouragement  or  advice.  We  knew  not  then,  but 
afterward  we  knew.  He  had  seen  part  of  the  first  act, 
and  had  left  the  theatre  in  despair.  He  had  gone  to  the 
Ashland  House  across  the  way.  There  on  this  hot  summer 
night,  the  windows  in  front  of  the  theatre  being  open, 
he  could  actually  hear  the  actors  speaking  on  the  stage; 
he  could  hear  the  audience  laugh  and  applaud  whenever 
they  were  so  inclined.  There  he  sat  on  one  of  those  well- 
remembered  rush-bottom  chairs,  the  picture  of  wretched- 
ness, Bunce,  the  business  manager  of  the  theatre,  on  a 
chair  beside  him,  glum,  silent,  pale,  desperate.  These 
two,  who  saw  the  fortunes  of  the  theatre  blasted,  sat 


298  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

with  lips  compressed  and  chairs  tilted  back  like  men 
whose  doom  was  sealed. 

"What's  that?"  cried  Frohman. 

"My  God!    The  theatre's  on  fire!"  cried  Bunce. 

They  rushed  across  the  street.  The  place  was  in  an 
uproar.  Up  the  stairs  on  either  side  of  the  lobby  they 
sped,  followed  by  the  police  and  several  old  patrons  of 
the  hotel  across  the  way.  Passers-by  stopped  and  stared. 
Some  one  cried:  "Sound  the  fire-alarm!"  In  the  theatre 
the  audience  rocked  and  roared  with  applause.  Shouts 
of  victory  resounded  in  the  air.  Up  went  the  curtain 
again,  and  again,  and  yet  again.  There  was  Jack  Ham- 
merton  in  the  auctioneer's  box,  a  bottle  of  champagne 
in  one  hand,  a  glass  in  the  other,  his  hair  on  end  and 
wet  with  perspiration,  his  collar  wilted  and  burst  from 
his  collar  button,  his  waistcoat  undone,  gesticulating 
hysterically  as  picture  after  picture  came  and  went 
again.  Five  calls,  six  calls,  seven !  eight !  nine !  ten ! 

"Ten  calls!  What's  the  matter  with  Sothern?" 
whispered  Bunce. 

"It's  that  champagne!  I  knew  it  was  a  mistake!" 
said  Frohman. 

But  it  wasn't  the  champagne  at  all.  We  had  lived  up 
to  the  printing — at  least  we  thought  we  had.  The  last 
act  went  finely.  Frohman  beamed  like  the  morning  sun; 
the  lovers  loved  like  Love  himself;  the  audience  played 
its  part  and  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell.  "The 
Highest  Bidder"  was  a  fine  success.  We  began  at  once 
to  consider  our  next  play. 

An  interviewer  was  asking  me  one  day  for  a  record 
of  my  modest  achievements.  Said  I:  "Any  distinction 
to  which  I  may  lay  claim  is  not  connected  with  the 
theatre.  Acting  is  a  side  issue  with  me.  My  chief  ac- 


s 

D 

wi 
o  " 


THE  OLD  LYCEUM  THEATRE  299 

complishment  in  days  to  come  will  be  admitted  to  lie- 
in  the  realms  of  invention.    I  am  an  inventor." 

"What  did  you  invent?"  said  the  surprised  scribe. 

"The  London  messenger-boy,"  I  replied.  "It  is  en- 
tirely owing  to  my  enterprise  that  fltessenger-boys  exist 
in  London." 

I  proceeded  to  enlighten  my  interlocutor:  "When  my 
little  play,  'The  Highest  Bidder,'  had  achieved  the 
distinction  of  a  fifty-night  run  in  New  York  during  the 
summer  of  1885,  Mr.  Dan  Frohman  and  I,  in  the  pride 
and  enthusiasm  of  victory,  got  up  a  souvenir  to  celebrate 
the  occasion.  I  made  some  little  pen-and-ink  sketches 
of  the  characters,  of  which  sketches  I  was  extremely 
proud.  I  said  to  my  brother  Sam  one  morning:  'I 
think  we  ought  to  send  some  of  these  souvenirs  to  the 
authors  of  the  play.'  The  piece  had  been  written  for 
my  father  twenty  years  before  by  two  popular  writers 
of  the  day,  Madison  Morton  and  Robert  Reece.  Morton 
was  a  most  prolific  writer  of  farces,  '  Box  and  Cox'  being, 
perhaps,  his  most  famous  one;  and  Robert  Reece  had 
for  years  and  years  written  the  burlesques  for  the  Gaiety 
Theatre,  London.  At  this  time,  Reece  was  an  old  man, 
an  inmate  of  the  Charter  House  in  London.  The  Charter 
House  is  a  hospital  and  school  founded  in  1611  by  Sir 
Thomas  Sutton.  It  was  originally  a  Carthusian  monas- 
tery established  in  1371.  It  is  an  asylum  for  poor  brethren 
the  number  of  whom  is  limited  to  eighty,  and  they  must 
be  bachelors,  members  of  the  Church  of  England,  and 
fifty  years  old.  Each  brother  receives,  besides  food  and 
lodging,  an  allowance  of  twenty-six  pounds  a  year  for  his 
clothing,  et  cetera.  Neither  Reece  nor  Morton  had  ever 
expected  to  hear  again  of  their  play,  'Trade,'  which 
they  had  sold  to  my  father  twenty  years  gone  by,  and  I 


300  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

thought  it  would  please  them  to  know  that,  at  last,  it 
had  been  played  and  had  met  with  success.  'We  must 
send  them  some  of  these  souvenirs/  said  I.  'How  shall 
we  do  it  ?' 

"'Send  a  messenger-boy,'  said  my  brother. 

"I  have  before  remarked  on  the  astonishing  acumen 
and  the  strange  ability  to  see  through  millstones  pos- 
sessed by  my  brother.  The  idea  immediately  struck  me 
as  not  only  feasible  but  capable  of  vast  advertising  pos- 
sibilities. In  those  days,  thirty  years  ago,  it  was  still 
something  of  an  adventure  to  cross  the  Atlantic.  I  had, 
myself,  only  recently  been  interviewed  because  I  had 
gone  to  London  and  back  within  twenty  days.  To-day 
this  is,  of  course,  commonplace. 

"We  rang  the  messenger  call.  A  very  small  boy  re- 
sponded. Said  I:  'I  want  you  to  take  this  package  and 
these  two  letters  to  Mr.  Robert  Reece  at  the  Charter 
House,  London,  England/ 

'"Yes,  sir/  said  the  boy  without  exhibiting  the  slightest 
surprise.  He  took  the  package  and  the  letters  and  went 
away. 

"'A  remarkable  boy!'  said  I. 

"'American/  said  my  brother. 

"We  went  over  to  Mr.  Frohman,  and  told  him  of  our 
plan.  He  was  enthusiastic.  The  head  man  from  the 
messenger  office  came  over  to  the  Lyceum  Theatre; 
this  was  a  matter  of  more  than  fifteen  cents.  Arrange- 
ments were  made  through  the  office  of  the  Edwin  H. 
Low  Steamship  Agency.  A  ship  sailed  the  next  morning 
and  our  messenger-boy,  named  Eugene  B.  Sanger,  in  a 
new  uniform,  and  looking  as  though  taking  letters  to 
Europe  were  his  daily  duty,  went  his  way. 

"Up  to  the  time  of  S anger's  arrival  in  London  no  mes- 


from  a  photograph  taken  in  London  U'ith  the  "  Buffalo  Bill"  Company 

EUGENE    B.    SANGER,    MESSENGER    BOY 

Sanger  was  sent  to  London  to  distribute  souvenirs  of  "The  Highest  Bidder" 


THE  OLD  LYCEUM  THEATRE  301 

senger  service  existed;  any  one  who  wished  to  send  a 
message,  either  sent  it  by  a  cab  or  called  for  a  commis- 
sionnaire — that  is,  an  old  soldier  disabled  from  active 
service,  retired  on  a  pension,  and  whose  progress  as  a 
Mercury  was  aided  by  the  loss  of  one  arm  or  one  leg. 
There  was  a  commissionnaire's  office  where  one  could  ob- 
tain the  service  of  one  of  these  veterans  to  perform 
many  and  various  duties;  as  a  rule  you  sent  a  commis- 
sionnaire  in  a  cab  !  Sanger's  visit  was,  for  our  purposes 
of  advertising,  made  as  public  as  possible.  Buffalo  Bill 
was  at  that  time  giving  an  exhibition  at  Earls  Court; 
to  him  also  was  a  souvenir  sent,  and  we  soon  received  a 
photograph  of  our  boy  surrounded  by  Buffalo  Bill's 
Indians,  cowboys,  and  other  Wild  West  citizens.  Sanger's 
mission  to  Morton  and  Reece  was  discussed  in  the  Daily 
Telegraph  and  other  papers.  Then  a  correspondence 
ensued  as  to  the  messenger  service  in  America;  Sanger 
was  interviewed  and  discussed  learnedly  upon  his  pro- 
fession. Much  argument  to  and  fro  resulted.  His 
comings  and  goings  were  chronicled,  and  the  establish- 
ment of  a  messenger  service  was  discussed  and  advocated. 
Not  long  afterward  it  was  actually  instituted,  and,  as 
all  the  world  knows,  you  can  call  a  messenger-boy  in 
London  to-day  with  the  same  facility  that  you  can  call 
one  in  New  York.  Ten  years  later,  in  1895,  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Harding  Davis  sent  his  messenger-boy  'Jaggers' 
from  London  to  New  York,  thereby  availing  himself  of 
the  service  which  my  brother's  suggestion  had  estab- 
lished. 

"This,  I  declare,  is  a  sufficient  claim  to  immortality; 
here  is  a  useful  and  really  necessary  concomitant  of  daily 
existence,  which  brings  ease  and  peace  and  comfort  to 
thousands  of  people,  which  facilitates  intercourse  in  all 


302  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

business  and  pleasure — a  long-felt  want  supplied !  And 
who  did  this  thing  ?  To  whom  is  glory  due  ? 

"To  me !  From  the  housetops  I  cry  it !  I  did  it — 
Sam  and  I. 

"Sanger's  visit  was  a  triumphal  progress.  On  land 
and  sea  he  was  petted  and  entertained,  as  though  he  had 
been  a  messenger  from  Mars.  He  gave  up  being  a  mes- 
senger-boy and  went  on  the  stage;  became  an  actor,  a 
writer,  a  manager,  a  man  of  letters  in  more  senses  than 
one." 

Said  I  to  my  newspaper  friend:  "Here's  a  service  which 
should  arouse  the  gratitude  of  mankind,  and  yet  you  will 
persist  in  talking  to  me  about  my  inconsequential  doings 
on  the  stage." 

"But,"  said  he,  "I  was  not  aware  you  had  distinguished 
yourself  in  this  line." 

"'Twas  ever  thus,"  said  I.  "The  history  of  invention 
teems  with  the  wrongful  wresting  of  reward  from  the 
patient  investigator.  Some  other  brow  will  wear  the 
laurel  which  should  have  been  mine.  History,  however, 
will  vindicate  my  claim." 


XXXII 
"MRS.  MIDGET" 

IT  is  generally  difficult  to  determine  the  origin  of 
nicknames.  As  a  rule,  however,  they  are  founded  on 
some  evident  characteristic  of  the  individual  thus  labelled 
and  defined;  so  that  when  "Mrs.  Midget"  was  called 
"Mrs.  Midget,"  it  seemed  a  most  proper  cognomen. 
"Mrs.  Midget"  was  small  and  elf-like;  bashful,  elusive, 
and,  in  a  sweet  way,  mysterious;  eager  and  earnest  about 
her  work,  ready,  indefatigable,  and  observant.  Her  fore- 
head was  high,  her  nose,  tip-tilted  like  a  flower,  was 
slightly  on  one  side,  and  she  laughed  with  lips  close  to- 
gether like  a  rosebud.  She  had  a  great  sense  of  humor 
and  her  eyes  were  full  of  wonder. 

In  the  same  manner  when  "Mr.  Oldest"  was  dubbed 
"Mr.  Oldest,"  that  seemed  an  entirely  appropriate  name 
for  him.  He  was  only  about  twenty-four,  but  there  was 
a  general  impression  that  he  was  at  least  a  hundred  and 
two.  Anyhow,  he  seemed  appallingly  ancient  to  "Mrs. 
Midget,"  who  herself  was  just  sixteen. 

It  was  the  habit  of  "Mr.  Oldest"  to  work  very  hard 
at  everything  and  at  nothing.  In  fact,  a  candid  and  un- 
pleasant friend  had  said  to  him  one  day:  "You  think 
you  work,  but  you  don't;  you  fidget."  Indeed  this  was 
frequently  the  case,  for  much  of  the  effort  of  "Mr.  Oldest" 
failed  to  get  him  anywhere.  Still  his  restlessness  was  of 
the  kind  exhibited  by  persons  eager  to  start  in  a  race, 

303 


304  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

and  who  lift  up  first  one  foot  and  then  another;  who 
hop  about  and  swing  their  arms  and  cry  "Ha,  ha!" 
as  the  war-horse  of  the  Scriptures  is  reported  to  have 
done,  when  he  scented  the  battle  from  afar,  and  who 
clap  their  hands  as  the  little  hills  are  admitted  to  have 
clapped  theirs,  on  the  same  excellent  authority.  The  little 
hills  behaved  thus  because  they  were  glad,  and  "Mr. 
Oldest"  was  glad — not  about  anything  in  particular, 
but  just  because  he  wanted  to  work  and  because  there 
seemed  to  be  plenty  of  work  to  do. 

"Mr.  Oldest"  was,  in  fact,  so  anxious  to  be  up  and 
doing  that  no  doubt  his  features  at  twenty-four  took,  on 
occasion,  the  aspect  of  Methuselah;  so  that  when,  one 
fine  day,  he  was  addressed  as  "Mr.  Oldest"  he  became 
"Mr.  Oldest"  from  thenceforth. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1887  that  "Mr.  Oldest" 
started  in  to  fidget  abnormally  concerning  a  certain  play. 
"Mrs.  Midget"  was  cast  for  a  part  in  it.  That  is  now 
thirty  years  ago,  but  "Mr.  Oldest"  can  remember  quite 
well  the  slim,  childish  figure  in  a  summer  frock  who 
came  to  rehearsal.  She  had  very  little  to  say,  but  watched 
with  large  eyes  everything  that  transpired.  At  that 
time  "Mrs.  Midget"  had  a  way  of  speaking  with  her 
mouth  pursed  up  and  her  lips  not  opening  very  far. 
She  laughed  after  the  same  fashion,  and  "Mr.  Oldest," 
who  took  upon  himself  to  rehearse  this  play,  and  to  tell 
everybody  how  to  do  everything,  tried  to  get  "Mrs. 
Midget"  to  talk  with  more  open  lips,  and  to  laugh  with 
wider  gladness.  This  matter  of  laughing  was  a  particular 
fad  of  "Mr.  Oldest."  His  own  laugh  was  mirthless  to 
a  degree.  It  was  not  properly  a  laugh  at  all,  but  a  suc- 
cession of  short,  sharp  explosions;  or,  when  he  was  un- 
controllably merry,  a  wail  as  of  some  lost  soul,  or  of  some 


"MRS.  MIDGET"  305 

animal  in  pain.  In  ordinary  social  intercourse  this  did 
not  matter,  but  when  it  came  to  impersonating  characters 
which  should  indicate  merriment,  joy,  or  humorous  ap- 
preciation, here  was  a  serious  defect.  Therefore,  "Mr. 
Oldest"  had  determined  to  conquer  it.  He  would  have 
what  he  called  "laughing  parties."  That  is  to  say,  he 
would  gather  together  four  or  five  victims — the  low 
comedian  of  his  company,  the  old  woman,  the  soubrette, 
and  any  other  who  had  a  blithe  spirit,  a  comic  face,  or 
even  a  miserable  countenance  which  might  excite  laughter. 
He  would  seat  them  on  chairs  very  close  together  in  a 
circle.  He  would  say:  "Now  then,  we  will  laugh." 

"At  what  ?"  some  one  would  ask. 

"At  nothing,"  would  say  "Mr.  Oldest."  "One,  two, 
three,  laugh  1"  and  they  would  laugh,  at  first  without 
any  mirth  at  all,  then  the  absurdity  of  it  would  beget 
mirth.  The  distorted  face  of  the  comedian  laughing 
against  his  will,  the  distress  of  the  miserable  man  who 
objected  to  laughter,  the  old  lady  conscious  of  dignity 
outraged — shortly  the  whole  lot  would  feel  the  contagion 
of  laughter,  and  would  become  hysterical.  Meanwhile, 
"Mr.  Oldest"  would  direct  operations,  his  voice  rising 
above  the  din. 

"We  will  make  various  sounds,"  he  would  say.  "We 
will  laugh,  Ho,  ho!  Ha,  ha!  Hi,  hi!  He,  he!  Hu,  hu! 
Again !  Keep  it  up  !" 

The  martyrs  would  obey  and  thus  "Mr.  Oldest"  culti- 
vated his  own  laughter  at  the  expense  of  the  peace  of 
mind  and  perchance  the  sanity  of  his  friends. 

When  it  became  evident  that  "Mrs.  Midget's"  laugh 
was  open  to  improvement,  "Mr.  Oldest"  took  her  aside 
and  explained  his  system.  Soon  she  was  made  one  of 
the  party,  and,  seated  with  the  others  on  the  stage  after 


3o6  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

a  rehearsal,  she  was  made  to  laugh.  To  this  day  she  will 
tell  you  that  the  laughter  with  which  she  now  fascinates 
you  was  due  to  this  treatment. 

"Mr.  Oldest V  laugh  yet  troubles  him.  He  has  to 
keep  his  eye  on  it  constantly.  It  is  spoken  of  still  as  a 
stage  laugh,  and  is  accounted  painful  to  the  listener. 
But  "Mr.  Oldest"  perseveres  and  hopes  to  laugh  loud 
and  long  before  he  dies. 

For  two  years  "Mrs.  Midget"  played  parts  with  "Mr. 
Oldest,"  and  then  the  charm  and  industry  for  which  she 
had  become  noticeable  attracted  the  attention  of  wise 
men,  and  she  began  to  climb,  step  by  step,  the  ladder  of 
fame. 

She  was  in  the  habit  of  declaring  that  the  fidgeting  of 
"Mr.  Oldest"  had  induced  her  to  fidget,  too.  She  be- 
came renowned  as  a  great  worker,  quite  indefatigable, 
with  a  consuming  ambition  to  do  great  things  in  the 
theatre. 

"Mr.  Oldest,"  between  momepts  of  fidgeting,  had 
confided  to  her  that  one  day  he  meant  to  play  Hamlet. 
He  had  mentioned  this  weakness  of  his  to  others,  who 
laughed,  but  "Mrs.  Midget"  did  not  laugh;  she  did  not 
say  anything,  but  she  did  not  laugh,  and  "Mr.  Oldest" 
was  not  in  the  least  surprised  to  learn  later  on  that  "Mrs. 
Midget"  was  at  that  very  moment  at  work  on  her  prompt 
book  of  "Romeo  and  Juliet." 

"Mr.  Oldest's"  fidgeting  led  him  a  pretty  dance. 
He  played  all  sorts  of  parts  in  all  sorts  of  plays,  while 
"Mrs.  Midget"  steadily  climbed  up  and  up  year  by  year. 
On  the  6th  of  December  of  every  year  "Mr.  Oldest" 
would  always  receive  a  telegram  which  read: 

Dear  Mr.  Oldest:  Many  happy  returns  of  the  day. 
Mrs.  Midget. 


"MRS.  MIDGET"  307 

This  was  not  a  voluminous  correspondence,  but  it 
was  a  link  which  held  two  fidgeters  together  in  an  in- 
teresting and  pretty  way  for  a  number  of  seasons. 

One  day  when  "Mrs.  Midget"  had  become  a  "star" 
actress,  and  "Mr.  Oldest"  was  rehearsing  a  new  play, 
he  received  a  note  asking  if  she  could  attend  his  rehearsal. 
Now,  this  was  a  thing  that  "Mr.  Oldest"  would  never 
allow  anybody  to  do.  He  hated  to  have  people  sit  in 
front  and  watch  him  in  the  process  of  self-discovery. 
He  preferred  to  fidget  without  the  gaze  of  prying  eyes. 
Still  he  felt  sure  of  "Mrs.  Midget's"  sympathy  and 
understanding,  so  he  wrote  her  an  affectionate  note  and 
begged  her  to  come.  She  was  to  sit  up  in  the  gallery, 
and  no  one  was  to  be  aware  of  her  presence.  She  was 
to  have  pencil  and  paper  and  make  notes.  It  was  a 
dress  rehearsal,  and  "Mr.  Oldest"  was  to  play  the  heroic 
role  of  a  Huguenot  outlaw.  There  was  much  sword- 
play  and  much  love-making,  and  there  was  moonlight, 
a  sun-dial,  and  a  troubadour;  there  was  a  king  whom  one 
had  to  defy,  a  castle  to  be  taken  by  strategy,  a  terrible 
duel,  and,  generally  speaking,  "Mr.  Oldest"  was  to  be 
a  very  devil  of  a  fellow.  In  his  secret  heart  he  rather 
fancied  himself  in  this  character,  and  he  was  rather  in- 
clined to  think  that  he  would  make  something  of  an  im- 
pression on  "Mrs.  Midget."  She  came  into  the  theatre 
by  the  front  way,  so  that  the  rest  of  the  company  should 
not  know  that  they  were  being  observed;  since  "Mr. 
Oldest"  firmly  believed  that  actors  should  not  be  rep- 
rimanded or  corrected  before  people  not  concerned  with 
the  matter  in  hand,  it  makes  them  feel  foolish  and  humil- 
iated, and  distracts  their  attention  to  the  detriment  of 
their  work. 

"Mr.  Oldest,"  having  attired  himself  in  all  his  finery, 


308  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

visited  "Mrs.  Midget"  in  front  of  the  house,  placed  her 
comfortably  in  a  seat  in  the  balcony,  quite  out  of  sight, 
saw  that  she  had  pencil  and  paper,  and  departed  to 
take  his  place  in  the  rehearsal.  In  those  days  agility 
was  "Mr.  Oldest V  strong  point.  It  was  declared  in- 
deed that  he  acted  more  with  his  feet  than  with  his  head; 
also  those  who  wrote  plays  for  him  were  careful  to  provide 
him  with  plenty  of  love-making  under  picturesque  cir- 
cumstances. Firelight,  moonlight,  sun-dials,  turnstiles 
were  enlisted  to  assist  the  melting  mood.  On  this  oc- 
casion "Mr.  Oldest"  threw  himself  into  his  part  with 
enthusiasm;  his  duels  were  terrific,  his  comedy  was  side- 
splitting, his  love-making  adorable — at  least,  so  he 
thought  when  he  had  a  moment  to  consider;  for  he  was 
terribly  busy  directing  everybody  and  attending  to  every- 
thing, and  quarrelling  with  the  man  who  worked  the 
moon,  and  the  man  who  led  the  orchestra,  and  the  man 
who  rang  the  curtain  up  and  down. 

At  last  the  rehearsal  was  over  and  "Mr.  Oldest" 
sought  "Mrs.  Midget,"  so  that  he  might  receive  her 
commendation  and  approval.  She  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  Those  in  front  of  the  theatre  said  she  had  gone 
home  as  soon  as  the  final  curtain  fell. 

"Ha!"  thought  "Mr.  Oldest,"  "she  is  overcome. 
The  beauty  of  the  thing  was  too  much  for  her.  That 
love-scene  about  the  sun-dial,  while  the  troubadour  sang 
in  the  distance  of  'fond  love  and  false  love.'  And  then 
the  sword-play!  That  would  upset  any  woman;  per- 
haps it  was  too  real,  too  terrible.  One  should  have  some 
consideration  for  the  females  in  the  audience." 

"Mr.  Oldest"  discussed  the  rehearsal  with  his  friends 
in  the  company.  They  thought  he  was  very  fine  indeed, 
and  he  thought  they  were  almost  as  good  as  he  was. 


From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 

BELLE  ARCHER,  MAUDE  ADAMS,  AND  E.  H.  SOTHERN 
IN  "LORD  CHUMLEY" 


"MRS.  MIDGET"  309 

The  next  morning  "Mr.  Oldest"  received  a  letter 
covering  about  sixteen  pages  from  "Mrs.  Midget."  He 
began  it  with  a  smile  of  confidence,  and  ended  it  with 
an  inclination  toward  suicide.  "Mrs.  Midget"  wouldn't 
have  the  play  at  all.  The  love-scenes  were  nonsense; 
the  comedy  was  horse-play;  the  fighting  was  lacking  in 
spirit  and  danger.  "Mr.  Oldest V  make-up  was  all 
wrong;  his  costumes  made  him  look  too  short.  The 
music  was  too  frequent  and  out  of  place.  The  lights 
were  badly  managed.  The  plot  was  obscure.  One  could 
not  hear  what  was  said  at  vital  parts  of  the  play.  "Mrs. 
Midget"  was  very  sorry,  but  failure  stared  "Mr.  Oldest" 
in  the  face. 

There  was  no  time  to  lose.  .In  two  days  the  play  was 
to  be  produced.  There  was  to  be  one  final  dress  rehearsal. 
"Mr.  Oldest"  recognized  that  every  word  written  by 
"Mrs.  Midget"  was  true.  Her  criticisms  were  astute, 
the  faults  found  were  evident  as  soon  as  she  pointed  them 
out.  As  is  so  frequently  the  case,  "Mr.  Oldest"  had 
fallen  in  love  with  his  errors.  These  things  he  would 
have  become  painfully  aware  of  the  morning  after  the 
production;  thanks  to  "Mrs.  Midget,"  he  knew  them 
now.  It  was  extremely  unpleasant,  but  it  was  extremely 
fortunate.  "Mr.  Oldest"  rehearsed  like  mad.  He  ex- 
plained to  his  stupefied  comrades  that  everything  which 
he  had  thought  was  all  right  was  all  wrong.  Love-scenes, 
combats,  lights,  music,  make-up,  costumes  were  re- 
written, reorganized,  reformed,  altered,  modified,  per- 
fected. The  play  was  a  great  success.  The  author  and 
"Mr.  Oldest"  alone  knew  whose  medicine  had  cured 
them.  Everybody  else  believes  to  this  day  that  they 
did  it  all  themselves. 

The  fact  is  that  "Mrs.  Midget's"  art  is  not  accidental 


3io  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

nor  by  any  means  a  thing  of  chance.  She  worked  very 
hard  to  find  out  why  things  are,  and  she  was  able  to 
apply  method  to  her  analysis.  She  is  a  living  instance 
of  the  truth  that  faith  can  move  mountains,  and  that 
work  can  accomplish  what  seems  to  be  impossible.  She 
is  a  small,  fragile  woman,  and  she  has  done  the  labor  of 
a  strong  man. 

Says  the  intelligent  reader:  "This  is  all  very  pretty, 
but  it  is  clear  that  you  yourself  are  'Mr.  Oldest.'  We 
know  you  quite  well  with  your  sword-play  and  your 
sun-dial.  You  have  revealed  yourself  during  this  tale 
in  a  hundred  ways.  But  who  is  'Mrs.  Midget'?  That  is 
what  interests  us.  Who  is  this  quaint,  mysterious,  elfin 
creature  who  hid  up  in  the  gallery  and  is  so  strangely 
wise  ?  It  is  very  evident  that  you  have  a  soft  spot  in 
your  heart  for  her." 

"Hush ! — bend  over — lend  me  your  ear.  Is  any  one 
listening?  Here  in  the  twilight  I  will  whisper,  'Mrs. 
Midget*  is " 

"Yes!    Yes!    Goon!" 

"You  promise  not  to  tell?" 

"Yes,  I  say!" 

"Whom  do  you  think?" 

"I  can't  imagine.    Tell  me  quick!" 

"You'll  keep  it  dark?" 

"Oh,  yes.    Who  is  she?" 

"  'Mrs.  Midget*  is  Maude  Adams." 

One  day  "Mrs.  Midget,"  now  become  a  great  star, 
very  sweetly  confided  to  Miss  Katherine  Wilson,  a  mutual 
comrade  and  old  friend,  that  she  would  like  to  meet 
"Mr.  Oldest"  after  many  years  and  exchange  reminis- 
cences over  the  festive  board.  "Mr.  Oldest"  jumped 
at  the  suggestion,  and  invited  Miss  Wilson  and  "Mrs. 


"MRS.  MIDGET"  311 

Midget"  to  dine  with  him  at  his  abode.  He  ordered  a 
delicious  dinner  and  made  great  preparations;  but, 
being  a  stupid  creature,  capable  of  entertaining  only 
one  idea  in  his  head  at  a  time,  and  being  absorbed  as 
usual  with  his  propensity  for  fidgeting,  he  meanwhile 
accepted  another  invitation  for  the  very  evening  on  which 
he  had  asked  "Mrs.  Midget"  to  dinner.  Herr  Conned 
had  sent  word  to  "Mr.  Oldest"  that  he  had  a  fine  play 
for  him  which  he  wished  to  talk  about  and  desired  that 
"Mr.  Oldest"  would  take  dinner  at  his  house  on  this 
identical  evening,  so  that  Herr  Conried  could  read  the 
play  and  tell  "Mr.  Oldest"  about  its  production  in  Ger- 
many. On  the  spur  of  the  moment,  and  in  the  midst  of 
his  work,  "Mr.  Oldest"  accepted  the  suggestion  and 
promptly  forgot  about  it.  So  that  on  the  night  when 
his  party  for  "Mrs.  Midget"  was  prepared  and  he, 
dressed  in  his  best  clothes,  awaited  her  arrival,  having 
ordered  the  most  beautiful  flowers  for  his  table  and 
lovely  bouquets  for  "Mrs.  Midget"  and  his  old  friend, 
Miss  Wilson,  while  he  stood  admiring  the  perfection  of 
his  preparations,  fixing  this  and  changing  that,  he  was 
suddenly  seized  with  the  awful  thought  that  this  was 
the  date  of  Herr  Conried's  dinner.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
He  was  due  at  Herr  Conried's  house  in  twenty  minutes ! 
"Mrs.  Midget"  was  at  that  instant  on  her  way  to  his 
door.  Despair  lent  "Mr.  Oldest"  some  semblance  of 
wit  and  he  seized  the  telephone  and  called  up  Mr.  Con- 
ried, told  him  frankly  that  he  had  mixed  his  dates  and 
asked  Mr.  Conried  to  come  and  dine  with  him.  Mr. 
Conried  declared  he  could  not  do  that,  since  he  had 
invited  some  friends  to  meet  "Mr.  Oldest,"  but  said 
that  he  and  Mrs.  Conried  would  be  delighted  if  "Mr. 
Oldest"  would  bring  his  two  friends  to  dine  at  his  house. 


3i2  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Mr.  Oldest"  accepted  gladly  and  hung  up  the  receiver, 
only  to  recall  that  he  had  not  confided  to  Mr.  Conried 
who  his  two  friends  were.  At  that  moment  the  bell 
rang.  "Mr.  Oldest"  opened  the  door  himself,  and  there 
stood  "Mrs.  Midget"  and  Miss  Wilson. 

"Stay!"  cried  "Mr.  Oldest"  to  the  driver  of  the  car- 
riage which  had  brought  them.  "Stay,  one  moment! 
Quick!"  said  he  to  the  astonished  "Mrs.  Midget"  and 
the  confounded  Miss  Wilson,  "I  am  going  to  take  you 
out  to  dinner !  The  most  wonderful  plan !  You  will  be 
delighted!" 

"Where  to?"  said  "Mrs.  Midget"  and  Miss  Wilson 
with  one  voice. 

"No  matter,"  said  "Mr.  Oldest";  "leave  it  to  me!" 

They  were  off  by  now,  and  there  was  much  excitement 
and  curiosity  as  to  their  destination.  Soon  they  arrived 
at  Herr  Conried's  door.  "Mr.  Oldest"  hurried  them 
up  the  stoop  to  the  house  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Whose  house  is  this?"  said  "Mrs.  Midget." 

"Herr  Conried's,"  said  "Mr.  Oldest";  "we  dine  with 
him." 

"No!  No!"  cried  "Mrs.  Midget,"  "I  can't  do  it! 
We  don't  speak !  We  have  quarrelled !  We " 

But  she  was,  by  now,  inside  the  door  and  despite  her 
protestations  was  greeted  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Conried. 
Soon  she  was  in  the  midst  of  a  joyful  occasion.  The 
dinner-party  was  delightful.  Herr  Conried  was  gay, 
wise,  kind,  and  made  much  fun  of  "Mr.  Oldest V  di- 
lemma. "  Mrs.  Midget "  in  a  dream  saw  her  quarrel,  what- 
ever it  was,  fade  away  into  thin  air,  in  a  whirlwind  of 
laughter  and  gayety.  "Mr.  Oldest"  never  discovered 
what  the  trouble  between  her  and  Herr  Conried  had 
been;  but  one  thing  was  certain,  he  had  been  the  means 


"MRS.  MIDGET"  313 

of  their  making  friends  again;  so  that  what  had  promised 
to  be  a  disastrous  occasion  turned  out  to  be  a  night  of 
rejoicing. 

Mr.  Conried  thanked  "Mr.  Oldest,"  "Mrs.  Midget" 
thanked  "Mr.  Oldest,"  Miss  Wilson  thanked  "Mr. 
Oldest,"  and  "Mr.  Oldest"  went  to  his  rest  persuaded 
that  he  was  a  very  clever  fellow  indeed. 


XXXIII 
"FLOCK" 

WHEN  Charles  P.  Flockton  died,  a  fine  actor  and  a 
good  man  went  on  his  last  journey.  "Flock,"  as  he  was 
familiarly  called,  played  in  my  company  for  twenty 
years.  Always  conscientious,  indefatigable,  kind,  gentle, 
serene;  a  dear  friend,  a  good  comrade.  His  personality 
was  extremely  striking — a  quite  remarkable  face :  aquiline, 
gaunt,  strongly  marked,  saturnine,  Quixotic;  a  very 
mysterious  man,  not  of  many  friends,  secretive,  proud, 
a  flashing  eye,  independent,  intolerant  of  wrong,  ob- 
stinate in  right,  even  to  his  own  undoing,  a  great  hu- 
morist, a  very  anchorite;  abstemious  in  all  ways,  never 
touching  strong  drink  and  able  to  live  on  bread  and 
milk;  a  perfect  gypsy,  preferring  a  camp-bedstead  or 
a  rug  on  the  floor;  always  cheerful,  always  kind. 

"You  imitate  Henry  Irving,"  said  a  critic  one  day. 

"Nonsense!"  said  "Flock."    "Irving  imitates  me!" 

"  Flock,"  although  ever  tidy  and  neat  and  picturesque, 
was  almost  shabby  at  all  times.  He  industriously  mended 
his  own  garments,  sewed  on  his  own  buttons,  and  re- 
paired the  frayed  ends  of  his  trousers  legs  with  extreme 
care.  "He  is  penurious,"  said  some;  "a  miser,"  said 
others;  "mad!"  would  murmur  a  third.  Squandering 
one's  means  was  ever  a  proof  of  one's  sanity. 

Many  pensioners,  however,  had  "Flock."  Strange, 
sad,  poor  people  waited  for  him  at  stage  doors;  old  women 

314 


"FLOCK"  315 

and  old  men  with  tattered  garments  and  wan  faces, 
young  people,  too,  evidently  out  of  a  job,  would  meet 
"Flock"  and  walk  off  with  him,  no  one  knew  whither, 
no  one  asked  or  was  told  why.  In  a  workaday  world 
these  things  attract  slight  attention;  we  have  something 
to  do,  somewhere  to  go;  it  is  not  our  affair. 

For  many  years  "Flock"  held  a  fine  position  in  Lon- 
don. When  he  came  to  America  he  went  out  as  a  "star" 
in  "The  Flying  Dutchman."  The  venture  was  not  suc- 
cessful, but  "Flock"  looked  the  mysterious  mariner  to 
the  life. 

"Flock"  was  a  great  horseman.  At  one  time  he  kept 
a  riding-school  in  London,  which  he  conducted  while  he 
was  acting.  A  certain  actors'  society  in  New  York  took 
measures  to  boycott  English  actors  in  this  country.  It 
was  suggested  that  American  actors  should  resign  from 
companies  wherein  English  actors  would  be  employed. 
"Flock,"  who  was  a  member  of  this  organization,  made 
a  vehement  address  on  the  subject  and  either  was  ex- 
pelled or  resigned.  A  positive  fellow  was  "Flock." 
Once  on  a  time  "Flock"  lived  in  a  flat  in  New  York 
with  young  Alexander  Salvini.  The  flat  was  at  the  top 
of  a  building.  In  the  street  opposite  were  a  number  of 
small  shops — a  butcher,  a  baker,  a  candlestick-maker, 
and  so  on.  I  was  invited  to  dine  there.  I  climbed  up 
the  stairs,  and  while  waiting  for  some  one  to  answer  the 
bell  I  had  time  to  observe  this  curious  list  on  the  out- 
side of  the  door: 

Chops — one  boot. 

Steak — two  boots. 

Potatoes — waistcoat. 

Cabbage — coat. 

Spinach — one  pair  of  trousers. 


316  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Coal — white  shirt. 

Wood — blue  shirt. 

Flour — socks. 

Before  I  could  read  more  "Flock"  himself  opened  the 
door. 

"What  do  you  have  your  wash  list  on  the  outside  of 
the  door  for  ? "  said  I. 

"That  isn't  a  wash  list!"  cried  "Flock";  "that's 
the  signal  service.  You  shall  see.  You  are  before  the 
dinner-time.  I'm  only  just  in  and  I  cook  the  dinner 
myself.  Come!"  "Flock"  went  to  the  window,  blew 
a  shrill  whistle,  once,  twice,  thrice!  "Look  out  at  the 
other  window!"  cried  "Flock."  "You  see  those  fellows 
come  out  of  the  shops?  Now  keep  your  eye  open!" 
He  took  two  old  boots  and  put  them  on  the  window-sill. 
A  man  at  the  butcher  shop  opposite,  who  was  looking 
our  way,  put  a  whistle  to  his  lips  and  blew  a  blast. 
"Good! "said  "Flock." 

"Again!"  He  took  a  red  waistcoat  and  waved  it  in 
the  wind  three  times.  "Potatoes  for  three,"  said  he. 
The  man  at  the  grocer's  shop  replied  with  a  whistle. 

"Shall  it  be  cabbage  or  spinach?"  said  "Flock." 

"Cabbage! "said  I. 

"Right  you  are!"  A  coat  was  thrown  in  the  air; 
came  the  response  instanter  from  below.  Some  socks, 
a  pair  of  trousers  and  innumerable  garments  carried  the 
message  to  the  waiting  tradesfolk.  Shortly  a  boy  ar- 
rived with  a  basket  full  of  food. 

"You  see,  old  man,"  said  "Flock,"  "it  saves  a  lot  of 
trouble.  I  don't  have  to  go  down;  they  don't  have  to 
come  up;  one  boy  can  do  all  the  work.  My  own  idea. 
Good,  isn't  it?" 

Good  it  was  surely,  and  might  be  more  universally 


From  a  photograph  by  Sarony 

"FLOCK" 

Charles  P.  Flockton  in  costume  in  "  Change  Alley ' 


"FLOCK"  317 

adopted  to  the  vast  saving  of  labor  and  the  general 
picturesqueness  of  life. 

The  dinner  was  excellent.  Beefsteak  and  kidney 
pie,  bread  of  "Flock's"  own  baking,  English  tea  im- 
ported especially  by  "Flock"  for  "Flock,"  a  Man- 
chester pudding — "the  only  place  in  America  where  you 
can  get  one,  my  boy" — a  great  dinner!  "Flock,"  cook, 
waiter,  bottle-washer,  here,  there,  and  everywhere;  Sal- 
vini,  a  dear  fellow,  happy  as  a  child.  In  England  most 
actors  live  in  lodgings,  and  when  they  come  to  America 
they  like  to  find  lodgings  to  live  in.  They  are  fond  of 
certain  particular  and  long-established  dishes,  such  as 
beefsteak  and  kidney  pie  and  Manchester  pudding.  A 
friend  of  "Flock's"  named  Paxton,  the  scion  of  a  dis- 
tinguished family  in  England,  being  down  on  his  luck, 
went  as  a  waiter  in  a  third-class  restaurant  in  New  York. 
A  more  fortunate  acquaintance  entered  the  restaurant 
one  day  and  picked  up  the  bill  of  fare;  he  turned  to 
the  waiter  to  order  his  meal.  It  was  Paxton. 

"Great  Heavens!  Paxton!"  said  the  customer,  "you 
don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  are  a  waiter  in  a  place  like 
this?" 

"Yes,"  said  Paxton,  "but  I  don't  get  my  meals  here." 

"Flock"  played  many  parts  with  me.  I  never  saw 
him  disturbed  or  at  a  loss  on  the  stage  but  once.  We 
had  produced  a  play  by  Paul  Potter  called  "The  Vic- 
toria Cross."  "Flock"  was  my  father  in  the  play.  I 
and  my  sweetheart  and  a  number  of  others  in  a  certain 
garrison  of  a  fort  in  India  are  surrounded  by  hostile 
natives.  There  is  no  hope  for  us;  we  are  all  doomed; 
our  defenses  are  being  undermined;  we  can  hear  the 
enemy  knocking — knock !  knock !  knock ! — as  they  dig 
tunnels  under  the  very  building  we  are  in.  We  get  ready 


3i8  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

for  the  explosion  of  the  mine  which  is  to  blow  us  all  to 
atoms.  We  hear  the  picks  in  the  very  wall;  we  take  fond 
farewells  and  level  our  guns,  to  sell  our  lives  dearly.  The 
explosion  takes  place,  the  wall  falls  in,  and  out  of  the 
aperture,  amid  falling  brick  and  stone  and  dust,  appears 
my  father,  "Flock."  "Fine,  my  boy!  Splendid!"  said 
"Flock"  with  enthusiasm.  "Good!  Explosion!  Centre 
of  stage  !  Expect  enemy  !  Old  father !  Embrace  ! 
Splendid!"  The  scene  was  built  with  much  detail.  We 
rehearsed  with  our  usual  care;  but  even  the  best-regulated 
families  encounter  disaster.  On  the  first  night  we  had 
trouble  indeed.  The  many  pieces  of  stone  were  put  in 
their  position  for  the  twentieth  time;  the  real  bricks 
and  the  real  dust  were  there  in  their  accustomed  places. 
"Flock"  was  enthusiastic  as  he  pictured  himself  as  the 
old  general  in  his  khaki,  sword  in  hand,  coming  through 
the  smoke  and  ruin,  and,  standing  right  in  the  centre 
of  the  stage  and  in  the  midst  of  his  family,  crying:  "You 
are  saved  !"  The  cue  came;  the  explosion  went  "bang !" 
the  property-man  pulled  his  strings;  the  wall  gave  way; 
"Flock"  dashed  through  flame,  fire,  smoke,  and  dust, 
when  some  perverse  bricks,  having  delayed  their  descent, 
now  fell  from  the  height  of  five  or  six  feet  right  onto 
the  top  of  his  dear  old  bald  head.  "Flock,"  staggered 
from  the  blow,  got  entirely  out  of  his  part,  looked  at  me, 
and  said,  "Hang  it!  old  man,  this  is  all  wrong,  you 
know !  Smashed  my  blooming  head,  old  man !  Oh, 
no,  this  won't  do!"  and  much  to  the  same  effect.  His 
anxious  family  surrounded  him  and  led  him  back  to  the 
plot  of  the  play,  but  it  was  an  awful  moment. 

There  came  a  time  when  "Flock"  began  to  look  very 
untidy  and  careless  in  his  attire;  also  he  was  late  for 
rehearsal  occasionally,  an  unheard-of  thing  for  "Flock"; 


"FLOCK"  319 

also  he  went  wrong  in  his  lines  now  and  then,  an  equally 
unheard-of  thing.  He  was  quite  a  different  man  as  the 
days  went  by.  "Are  you  ill?"  I  asked  him. 

"No,  old  man,  never  ill." 

"Are  you  worried  ?" 

"No,  old  man;  never  worry  about  anything." 

Days,  some  weeks  passed  by;  more  and  more  marked 
became  "Flock's"  distraction.  Some  embarrassing  mo- 
ments occurred  in  our  play,  Miss  Marguerite  Merring- 
ton's  comedy  of  "Lettarblair,"  wherein  "Flock"  had 
himself  arranged  a  sweet  scene,  where  he,  as  old  Dean 
Ambrose,  makes  love  to  an  old  flame  of  his  through  the 
medium  of  that  song,  "Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing 
young  charms  which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day,"  sung 
in  his  trembling,  aged  voice  with  great  feeling  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  zither,  which  he  played  ex- 
quisitely. This  scene  was  touching  and  beautiful. 
"Flock"  went  all  wrong  with  the  zither;  he  could  not 
go  on;  lost  his  head.  For  a  moment  the  ship  floundered, 
but  he  regained  the  helm  and  continued.  This  was  quite 
distressing;  no  one  could  throw  light  on  the  matter. 
At  length  I  reached  the  conclusion  that  "Flock"  had 
fallen  from  grace;  that  one  of  those  strange  and  un- 
accountable revolutions  of  character  and  habit  we  some- 
times encounter  had  overturned  "Flock's"  admirable 
serenity.  I  could  get  no  word  of  explanation  from  him, 
but  was  given  to  understand  that  my  inquiries  were  im- 
pertinent, and  that  "Flock's"  business  was  his  own. 
However,  I  felt  that  my  business  was  also  mine,  and 
that  certain  breaches  of  discipline  must  be  called  atten- 
tion to;  so  I  spoke  harshly  to  "Flock"  one  night,  and 
said  in  effect  that  he  must  be  more  careful,  and  that  I 
would  have  no  more  of  it. 


320  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

The  next  night  a  note  came  to  say  that  "Flock"  was 
ill  and  could  not  play.  An  understudy  went  on.  "Flock" 
was  down  and  out.  He  could  keep  up  his  brave  fight  no 
more. 

"I  give  up,  old  man,"  said  he  when  I  went  to  see  him; 
"I  give  up.  I  didn't  want  you  to  know." 

There,  on  a  bed  across  the  room,  was  all  that  was 
left  of  an  old  friend  of  both  "  Flock's  "  and  mine.  "  Flock  " 
had  nursed  him  night  and  day  for  weeks  and  weeks. 
The  man  had  given  way  to  a  weakness  common  enough, 
which  quite  incapacitated  him  from  such  precise  work 
as  play-acting.  To  be  known  as  a  victim  of  that  weak- 
ness was  to  be  ever  out  of  work,  so  far  as  the  theatre 
was  concerned.  "Flock"  did  not  want  me,  he  did  not 
want  the  world,  to  know  that  this  unfortunate  had 
crawled  into  his  house  one  night,  a  helpless,  hopeless 
wreck;  nor  that  he,  "Flock,"  had,  without  help,  tried 
to  nurse  the  wretched  man  back  to  sanity  and  health, 
reputation,  cleanliness,  and  happiness.  "Flock"  had 
given  of  his  all — money,  time,  health.  He  had  sat  up, 
holding  the  unhappy  man  on  his  bed,  and  gone  exhausted 
to  his  work  the  next  day;  he  had  gone  without  food  and 
without  sleep,  and  had  suffered  suspicion  and  abuse, 
and  had  had  to  give  it  up  at  last.  Good  old  "Flock" ! 

This  was  not  the  only  time  he  played  the  Good  Samar- 
itan. The  things  he  so  strenuously  denied  himself  he 
conferred  with  lavish  hand  on  those  about  him  less  for- 
tunate than  he.  Strange,  mysterious  meetings  he  had 
with  poor  vagrants,  which  always  ended  with  "Flock's" 
hand  going  into  "Flock's"  pocket,  and  then  seeking  the 
hand  of  the  oppressed  one. 

At  Prince  Edward  Island  on  the  sea  "Flock"  had 
bought  a  lot  of  land  and  a  modest  house.  Here  he 


"FLOCK"  321 

had  intended  to  spend  his  last  days,   but  it  was  not 
to  be. 

"Spread  my  ashes  to  the  four  winds,"  said  "Flock," 
when  his  time  came,  and  so  it  was.  Some  friends  took 
a  journey  to  Prince  Edward  Island,  and  the  mortal  re- 
mains of  old  "Flock"  were  wafted  to  the  breeze. 

"Oh,  such  a  little  while,  alas !  have  we 
To  gentle  be  and  kind  ! 
Ere  we  shall  blend  into  the  vagrant  wind, 
Shall  mingle  with  the  never-sleeping  sea, 
Then,  ever  seeking,  shall  we  ever  find 
I,  you  ?    You,  me  ?" 


XXXIV 
"LETTARBLAIR" 

"WHAT  is  a  Lettarblair?"  said  Miss  Marguerite  Mer- 
rington  to  me  one  memorable  morning  in  1887. 

Said  I:  "Lettarblair  is  the  name  of  a  cousin  of  mine, 
Lettarblair  Litton,  and  it  is  a  first-rate  name  for  the 
hero  of  your  play." 

We  were  talking  in  the  sitting-room  of  Miss  Merring- 
ton's  home  on  Grand  Boulevard  at  i2Oth  Street,  New 
York,  whither  I  had  journeyed  carrying  a  letter  of  in- 
troduction from  that  identical  good  fairy  who  has  flitted 
through  these  pages.  She  had  sped  down  Miss  Merring- 
ton's  chimney,  and,  having  waved  her  wand,  Miss  Mer- 
rington,  a  teacher  of  Greek  in  the  Normal  School,  at 
once  became  plagued  with  a  bee  in  her  bonnet  which 
buzzed  to  her  concerning  many  a  fanciful  scene  and 
many  words  of  pretty  wit  and  gentle  wisdom. 

"You  shall  write  a  comedy!"  cried  the  fairy,  where- 
upon the  teacher  of  Greek  seized  a  pencil  and  began. 

She  already  had  the  matter  in  some  shape  when  I 
paid  her  this  visit.  Events  happen  quickly  when  en- 
thusiasts confer.  In  one  minute,  Miss  Merrington's 
hero,  who  was  a  fiddler,  absent-minded,  and  a  dreamer  of 
dreams,  became  in  the  play  of  her  lively  fancy  a  soldier, 
an  Irishman,  a  man  of  action. 

In  two  minutes  he  had  changed  his  name  to  Lettar- 
blair from  whatever  it  had  previously  been,  and  in  half 
an  hour  he  had  become  enmeshed  in  some  very  fascinat- 
ing adventures. 

322 


"LETTARBLAIR"  323 

The  play  proceeded  apace,  and  soon  was  in  condition 
to  submit  to  Mr.  Daniel  Frohman. 

The  authoress  and  her  fellow  conspirator,  myself, 
awaited  the  manager's  verdict  with  impatience. 

"It  is  the  worst  play  I  have  ever  read,"  said  he. 

To  many  people  this  would  have  proved  a  shock. 
To  us  it  was  merely  a  means  of  perceiving  that  the  play 
must  be  made  better. 

The  advice  of  Mr.  Fred  Williams  was  sought.  He  was 
the  stage-manager  of  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  a  very  dear 
old  fellow,  and  a  wise  man  in  the  ways  of  play- 
making. 

Mr.  Williams,  however,  permitted  himself  on  occasion 
to  become  somewhat  the  slave  of  tradition.  In  a  cer- 
tain play,  Mr.  Herbert  Kelcey  was  called  upon  to  enter 
the  room  of  a  house  in  London.  Mr.  Williams,  reading 
from  his  carefully  prepared  manuscript,  said: 

"Enter  Kelcey  with  a  gun  in  his  hand.  Property-man, 
where  is  that  gun  ?  Hand  it  to  Mr.  Kelcey.  Now,  then, 
go  on !  Enter  with  a  gun  in  his  hand." 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Williams,"  said  Kelcey,  "but  I  don't 
quite  understand.  There  is  nothing  in  the  play  about 
a  gun.  There  is  no  reason  that  I  perceive  why  I  should 
enter  with  a  gun." 

Said  Mr.  Williams:  "My  dear  boy,  there  is  no  reason, 
but  it  makes  an  admirable  entrance." 

Mr.  Williams  smiled  benignly  upon  us.  He  read  the 
play. 

"I  will  copy  it  out,"  said  he,  "perhaps  something  may 
occur  to  me  in  the  process." 

With  much  labor  and  in  a  hand  remarkable  for  its 
size  and  its  clearness,  Mr.  Williams  copied  out  the  play. 
We  were  then  called  upon  to  hear  his  suggestions. 


324  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Mr.  Williams,  with  an  all-embracing  smile  and  a  most 
mellifluous  Dublin  brogue,  began: 

"I  will  read  you  a  play,"  said  he,  "called"  —  here  he 
considered  sagely,  and  then  as  though  the  idea  were  his 
own  and  an  inspiration  of  the  moment  —  "Lettar- 
blair!" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Merrington,  "that  is  my  title." 

Mr.  Williams  ignored  this  remark. 

"Lettarblair!"  said  he.  "I  will  call  my  play  'Lettar- 
blair.'" 

"My  play!"  said  Miss  Merrington. 

Mr.  Williams  read  the  names  of  the  people  in  the 
play.  "There,"  said  he,  beaming  upon  us  affectionately, 
"there  you  have  my  cast  of  characters." 

"My  cast  of  characters,"  said  Miss  Merrington 
weakly. 

He  had  reconstructed  the  comedy  to  some  extent, 
and  many  of  his  suggestions  and  amendments  were  of 
importance.  But  we  were  disconcerted  by  his  most 
amiable  but  insistent  habit  of  alluding  to  "my  play." 
However,  that  was  merely  a  figure  of  speech,  and  we 
soon  dismissed  our  misgivings.  We  both  recognized  the 
value  of  Mr.  Williams's  advice,  and  Miss  Merrington 
went  at  it  again. 

In  a  few  weeks  another  version  was  submitted  to  Mr. 
Frohman. 

"This  play,"  said  he,  "is  impossible.  I  have  never 
read  such  a  bad  play." 

Again  Miss  Merrington  and  I  departed,  and  again  we 
consulted  Mr.  Williams,  who  once  more  copied  out  the 
manuscript  and  once  more  read  us  "his"  play. 

This  happened  a  third  and  a  fourth  time  until  two 
years  had  passed.  At  length  I  declared  to  Mr.  Frohman 


"LETTARBLAIR"  325 

that  I  wanted  to  put  the  play  in  rehearsal,  but  he  was 
obdurate  and  would  have  none  of  it. 

Things  looked  badly  for  "Lettarblair,"  and  I  had  to 
write  to  the  good  fairy  to  say  that  I  must  abandon  the 
conflict.  Not  so  the  good  fairy,  however.  She  went  to 
Buzzards  Bay  with  the  manuscript  and  its  author,  who 
read  it  to  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson,  the  fairy  hovering  by. 
Mr.  Jefferson  said  it  was  charming,  and  wrote  to  me 
recommending  that  I  should  consider  the  matter  further. 
But  I  was  now  embarked  on  other  enterprises,  and  my 
enthusiasm  had  grown  cold.  However,  when  Mr.  Jeffer- 
son began  his  engagement  with  Mr.  Florence  at  the 
Garden  Theatre  in  New  York  I  placed  the  play  in  re- 
hearsal. 

"  Lettarblair V  Irish  brogue  and  many  very  witty 
lines,  a  beautiful  new  British  soldier's  uniform,  and  some 
charming  love-scenes  were  all  very  well;  but  there  was 
no  doubt  that  the  story  lacked  form  and  backbone  and 
plausibility. 

For  many  days  we  struggled  valiantly.  Mr.  Jefferson 
came  to  several  of  our  rehearsals  and  offered  valuable 
suggestions,  but  the  members  of  the  cast,  all  old  and 
eager  comrades  though  they  were,  felt  that  the  play  was 
incoherent  and  incomplete.  Still  I  determined  to  try  it 
at  a  matinee. 

"I  won't  buy  a  single  stick  of  scenery  for  it,"  said  Mr. 
Frohman. 

"I  will  do  it  with  what  is  in  the  theatre,"  said  I,  "with 
the  exception  of  one  small  front  scene,  and  all  I  want  for 
that  is  the  table  with  the  bench  around  it  which  one 
sees  in  Marcus  Stone's  picture." 

"What  will  it  cost?"  said  Mr.  Frohman. 

"About  fifty  dollars,"  said  I. 


326  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"It  is  too  much,"  said  he.  "It  would  be  throwing 
away  the  money." 

I  consulted  the  carpenter  and  the  scene-painter. 

"We  can  do  it  for  thirty  dollars,"  I  said. 

"Well,  go  ahead!"  said  Mr.  Frohman,  and  it  is  a  fact 
that  "Lettarblair"  was  produced  for  thirty  dollars. 

The  people  wore  the  clothes  they  already  possessed, 
but  I,  of  course,  had  to  purchase  that  beautiful  uniform. 

Now  we  went  to  work  in  earnest. 

In  Act  II  the  heroine  has  an  interview  with  the  hero 
in  his  rooms  at  the  barracks.  This  interview  is  the  real 
crux  of  the  play,  and  certain  matters  are  there  discussed 
on  which  hangs  the  future  conduct  of  the  story. 

One  day  I  stopped  at  rehearsal. 

Said  I:  "Miss  Merrington,  here  is  the  great  difficulty. 
I  have  felt  at  each  rehearsal  that  this  scene  is  unreal, 
untrue.  It  couldn't  happen.  The  girl  would  not  remain 
in  the  man's  rooms  after  the  exit  of  the  others,  and  if 
she  did  remain  she  would  leave  the  instant  that  Lettar- 
blair, with  whom  she  has  quarrelled,  should  enter." 

"She  must  remain,  though,"  said  Miss  Merrington, 
"or  there  is  no  play." 

"But  we  must  make  her  remaining  necessary.  How 
will  you  make  it  absolutely  necessary  for  her  to  stay — 
necessary  for  her  to  hear  against  her  will  Lettarblair's 
explanation  and  his  protestation  of  love  ?  There  is 
every  reason  why  she  should  go,  and  no  reason  why  she 
should  stay." 

Here  we  were  at  a  standstill,  for  unless  this  could  be 
mended  the  whole  play  fell  down. 

"I  have  it,"  said  I.  "She  must  get  her  dress  caught 
in  the  door." 

"But  she  could  turn  the  handle  and  release  it." 


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"LETTARBLAIR"  327 

"There  must  be  no  handle.  A  few  moments  previous 
to  this  some  character  must  open  the  door,  and  the 
handle  must  come  off.  It  must  roll  a  little  distance  down 
the  stage.  Shortly  the  heroine  turns  to  take  a  last  look 
at  the  scene,  standing  so  that  her  dress  is  between  the 
door  and  the  frame  of  the  door.  The  person  who  has 
just  gone  off  shuts  the  door  and  her  frock  is  caught. 
She  is  a  prisoner/* 

"She  could  pick  up  the  handle." 

"No,  it  is  too  far  from  her,  and  here  is  where  we  have 
a  splendid  comedy  scene.  She  must  try  to  reach  the 
handle.  She  calls  for  the  others  to  open  the  door.  They 
are  too  far  away  to  hear  her.  She  takes  that  sword  there 
and  tries  to  reach  the  handle.  She  can  barely  touch  it. 
She  puts  the  scabbard  on  the  end  of  the  sword-blade, 
she  touches  the  handle,  but,  ah !  the  scabbard  falls  off, 
and  she  cannot  get  it  again.  She  moves  to  take  off  her 
frock  when  Lettarblair  enters.  She  demands  the  handle. 
He  perceives  her  dilemma  and  his  own  opportunity. 
He  laughs,  takes  a  chair,  sits  down  in  front  of  her,  and 
there  is  the  interview  which  she  has  to  take  part  in 
whether  she  will  or  no.'* 

Then  and  there  the  whole  scene  was  acted  out  and 
entirely  rewritten.  Everything  became  not  only  possible, 
but  convincing  and  inevitable.  The  play  rapidly  de- 
veloped in  every  direction,  and  in  a  few  days,  at  our 
dress  rehearsal,  our  hopes  ran  high. 

This  particular  scene  at  the  first  performance  proved 
a  fine  success,  and  when  the  heroine  was  relieved  from 
her  predicament  just  as  Lettarblair,  pleading  his  cause, 
and  trying  to  undo  the  Gordian  knot  which  the  authoress 
had  skilfully  tied,  took  the  rebellious  lady  in  his  arms, 
when  the  door  was  burst  open  from  without,  the  heroine 


328  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

released,  and  the  climax  of  the  act  shortly  after  achieved, 
Miss  Merrington  knew  that  her  comedy  was  victorious. 
Soon  the  play  was  put  on  at  night,  and  ran  for  a  year. 

This  incident  does  not  belong  to  the  chapter  of  ac- 
cidents, but  is  one  of  those  opportunities  begot  of  en- 
deavor; for  obstacles  present  themselves  to  the  ad- 
venturer merely  to  be  overcome,  and  of  such  conquests 
events  are  born.  Thus  was  my  father  confronted  with 
the  impossible  task  of  making  the  original  part  of  Lord 
Dundreary  a  great  or  even  a  good  character  study  when 
that  emergency  which  rendered  him  desperate  proved 
to  be  his  salvation. 

On  the  occasion  of  the  first  dress  rehearsal  of  Jus- 
tin McCarthy's  play  "If  I  Were  King,"  Mr.  Daniel 
Frohman  pronounced  a  judgment  which  undoubtedly 
secured  the  success  of  that  drama.  In  the  original  ver- 
sion the  heroine,  Katherine  de  Vaucelles,  was  aware  dur- 
ing" the  entire  second  and  third  acts  that  the  new  grand 
constable  was  actually  the  Fra^ois  Villon  of  Act  I,  and 
the  interest  centred  in  her  observation  of  the  toss-pot 
poet's  regeneration  before  her  very  eyes,  and  his  trans- 
formation from  a  rascal  to  a  counsellor  and  commander 
of  the  King's  army  constituted  the  chief  interest  of  the 
acts. 

"These  acts  have  no  movement  whatever,"  said  Mr. 
Frohman  when  Mr.  McCarthy  and  I  joined  him  in  the 
auditorium  on  the  fall  of  the  curtain.  "There  is  no 
suspense.  That  long  recitation  of  *  Where  are  the  snows 
of  yesteryear'  is  extraneous,  tiresome.  There  is  no  drama 
behind  it.  There  is  no  conflict.  The  moment  the  cur- 
tain rises,  we  know  the  heroine  is  about  to  surrender 
to  the  hero,  and  when  she  succumbs  at  last  we  have 
anticipated  it  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  There  is 


"LETTARBLAIR"  329 

no  surprise,  no  victory  over  obstacles,  no  achievement, 
no  opposition." 

Mr.  McCarthy  looked  exceedingly  blue. 

I  myself  saw  that  Mr.  Frohman's  objection  was  just, 
but  perceived  no  remedy. 

"Were  you  not  interested  in  the  love-scene  ?"  I  asked. 

"No,  not  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Frohman. 

"Why  not?" 

"The  heroine's  submission  is  a  foregone  conclusion." 

"The  poem  is  beautiful." 

"Perhaps,  but  since  she  already  admires  the  hero  all 
his  wooing  in  verse  seems  superfluous.  The  action 
drags.  If  we  knew  that  he  was  luring  her  into  a  trap 
with  all  his  honeyed  talk,  and  if,  when  she  had  declared 
her  love  for  him  she  should  discover  for  the  first  time 
that  this  magnificent  grand  constable  is  in  fact  no  other 
than  the  ragged  vagabond  of  the  first  act,  then  you  would 
have  a  dramatic  situation;  we  in  front  would  be  aware 
throughout  Acts  II  and  III  that  this  revelation  was  pend- 
ing, was  threatening,  and  we  would  watch  the  rhymester's 
wooing  of  the  haughty  lady  with  keen  anticipations, 
we  would  look  forward  to  her  anger,  her  scorn,  and  her 
denunciation." 

"You  mean  that  she  must  not  know  who  the  new 
grand  constable  really  is  ? " 

"Of  course  she  must  not." 

"Who  shall  betray  him?" 

"He  must  confess." 

"But  that  is  the  plot  of  the  'Lady  of  Lyons.'  That 
is  exactly  what  Claude  Melnotte  does." 

"What  does  that  matter?  Such  a  revelation  is  one  of 
the  thirty-six  situations  of  Gozzi.  Novelty  consists  not 
so  much  in  situation  as  in  treatment." 


330  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

The  wisdom  of  these  remarks  was  evident. 

That  night  Mr.  McCarthy  rewrote  the  scenes  of  the 
second  and  third  acts.  The  alterations  were  surprisingly 
simple. 

The  next  day  we  rehearsed  the  new  version.  The 
love-scene,  the  poem,  the  wooing,  all  assumed  a  new 
interest.  Every  word  and  glance  which  now  drew  the 
heroine  more  and  more  into  the  mesh  of  love  increased 
the  excitement  of  the  auditor,  and  when  Villon,  having 
won  her  heart,  confessed  that  he  was  the  vagabond  poet 
and  Katherine  denounced  him  for  his  perfidy,  the  strength 
of  the  situation  was  intense. 

Thus  did  a  grave  fault  beget  a  great  excellence. 

Some  time  after  the  success  of  the  play  Mr.  Mc- 
Carthy said:  "That  was  a  lucky  thought  of  mine,  that 
change  at  the  end  of  the  second  act." 

A  lady  who  had  been  present  at  the  dress  rehearsal 
laughed  scornfully.  "  Your  thought !"  said  she.  "Why, 
the  idea  was  mine." 

"Really,"  said  I,  "it  is  immaterial,  but  in  mere  justice 
to  myself  and  in  the  cause  of  truth  and  history  I  must 
declare  that  the  suggestion  was  mine." 

Such  is  the  ingratitude  of  the  victorious. 


XXXV 

MEADOW-LARKS  AND  GIANTS' 
ROBES 

IN  a  field  adjoining  a  village  churchyard  "Me"  one 
day  discovered  a  human  skull.  No  doubt  an  absent- 
minded  sexton  had  placed  it  on  one  side  when  making 
a  new  grave.  Perhaps  it  had  rolled  away,  and  the  kindly 
grass  had  covered  it.  The  skull  was  broken  and  within 
the  cavity  a  lark  had  built  its  nest.  Three  small  birds 
were  chirping  therein.  Soon  they  would  take  flight  and 
rise  to  heaven's  gate  carolling  their  hymn  of  praise. 

Thus  did  the  voice  of  song  proceed  from  the  ruined 
temple  in  spite  of  the  destroyer,  and  in  the  midst  of  death 
there  was  life.  It  was  as  though — 

"The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook" 

had  returned  in  new  guise  to  the  ruin  of  her  former 
home,  and  into  the  shattered  receptacle  had,  in  mere 
exuberance  of  joy,  poured  the  wine  of  life  anew. 

Garlanded  without  by  wild  flowers  and  echoing  with- 
in the  love-songs  of  the  birds,  might  one  not  contemplate 
this  once  human  habitation  and  say:  "Death,  where  is 
thy  victory  ? " 

We  read  in  the  lives  of  distinguished  painters  how  a 
little  sketch  made  at  random,  and  the  folds  of  a  drapery 
set  down  as  the  whim  chanced,  and  the  study  of  a  figure 
made  in  years  gone  by,  one  day  gather  about  the  nucleus 

331 


332 


MY  REMEMBRANCES 


of  a  wandering  thought,  and  there  on  the  instant  a  great 
picture  is  conceived,  each  one  of  these  separate  and 
vagrant  memories  contributing  its  hoarded  treasure  to 
the  common  store. 

The  same  contribution  of  experience  to  practise  occurs 
in  literature  and  in  life.  So  in  the  mind  of  "Me"  the 
picture  of  the  hermit,  the  thought  of  the  retreat  of  the 
meadow-lark,  one  day  peeped  in  at  the  window  of  his 
remembrance  as  he  read  in  Lamb's  "Tales  from  Shake- 
speare" the  story  of  the  bereaved  Hamlet — where  once  he 
had  wished  to  be  an  Indian  he  now  craved  to  impersonate 
the  sombre  prince. 

The  curious  gratification  which  mankind  experiences 
in  contemplating  the  story  of  "Hamlet"  was  once  amus- 
ingly instanced  in  the  remark  of  a  small  child  who  one 
day  watched  a  rehearsal  of  the  tragedy. 

"Which  of  our  plays  do  you  like  the  best?"  I  asked 
her,  as  she  sat  on  a  trunk  absorbed  in  the  scenes  of  treach- 
ery, incest,  murder,  and  revenge. 

"'Hamlet,' "she  lisped. 

"Why?"  said  I. 

"Because  it  is  so  happy,"  said  she. 

She  meant,  no  doubt,  because  she  received  so  much 
satisfaction  from  the  tale.  The  pity  for  the  hero's  blighted 
love,  the  justice  of  his  cry  for  vengeance,  and  the  final 
punishment  of  the  wicked  King,  all  satisfied  her  sense  of 
right. 

In  a  small,  old-fashioned  album  for  cartes  de  visite 
was  a  photograph  of  Edwin  Booth  as  the  Prince  of  Den- 
mark which  he  had  presented  to  "Me's"  mother.  This 
picture  must  have  been  taken  about  1865.  Gazing  at 
the  beautiful,  sad  face,  "Me"  fed  his  imaginings  while 
his  mother  read  to  him  the  pages  of  the  play,  and,  like 


MEADOW-LARKS  AND  GIANTS*   ROBES    333 

the  other  little  child  of  a  later  day,  he  was  fascinated  by 
the  "happy"  story. 

"Here  hung  those  lips  that  I  have  kissed  I  know  not 
how  oft.  Where  be  your  gibes  now,  your  gambols,  your 
songs,  your  flashes  of  merriment  that  were  wont  to  set 
the  table  on  a  roar  ?  Not  one  now  to  mock  your  own 
grinning." 

Here  would  "Me's"  mind  hark  back  to  the  poor 
abandoned  head-piece  wherein  the  lark  had  nested,  and 
he  longed  from  the  skeleton  of  the  printed  page  to  see 
the  prince  in  flesh  and  blood  take  wing. 

It  was  not  until  1879  that  I,  no  longer  "Me,"  saw 
Mr.  Booth  play  Hamlet.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  all 
longings  were  fulfilled. 

Edwin  Booth's  genius  shone  like  a  good  deed  in  a 
naughty  world.  His  light  was  so  steady  and  pure  and 
his  acting  so  free  from  exaggeration  that  he  baffled 
imitation,  although  all  the  ambitious  actors  of  my  early 
days  took  him  as  their  ideal.  However,  here  was  no 
strange  gait  nor  curious  utterance  to  copy.  Dignity, 
beauty  of  speech  and  of  carriage,  and  a  very  noble  sim- 
plicity shamed  imitation  and  stripped  one  bare  of  all 
pretending.  Booth  was  unique  in  his  grandeur.  It  is 
not  likely  he  will  find  an  adequate  successor. 

"Dost  thou  in  the  name  of  this  child  renounce  the 
devil  and  all  his  works,  the  vain  pomp  and  glory  of  the 
world,  with  all  covetous  desires  of  the  same  and  the  sin- 
ful desires  of  the  flesh,  so  that  thou  wilt  not  follow  nor 
be  led  by  them?" 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  fear  of  this  undertaking,  Edwin 
Booth  would  have  granted  my  father's  wish  and  would 
have  become  my  sponsor  in  baptism. 

Said  he  to  Mr.  Daniel  Frohman:  "When  E.  A.  Sothern 


334  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

asked  me  to  be  godfather  to  his  son  Edward,  I  really 
feared  I  might  have  my  hands  full  should  I  register  these 
vows  of  a  godparent.  Sothern  himself  was  such  a  harum- 
scarum  fellow  at  that  time,  with  his  practical  jokes  and 
his  spirit-rapping  and  his  amazing  vitality — a  very  pres- 
ent terror  to  nervous  and  staid  persons — that  I,  who 
looked  upon  such  covenants  seriously,  hesitated  to  guaran- 
tee his  son  from  'the  devil  and  all  his  works'  or  from 
'the  vain  pomp  and  glory  of  the  world,'  so  I  managed 
to  evade  the  obligation." 

However,  when,  many  years  later,  I  began  to  play 
parts  of  some  consequence  at  the  old  Lyceum  Theatre, 
Edwin  Booth  would  come  now  and  again,  and,  having 
purchased  a  seat  in  the  balcony,  would  sit  there  all  by 
himself,  to  see  whither  my  inherited  effervescence  had 
led  me.  Frank  Bunce,  the  business  manager,  discovered 
him  two  or  three  times  in  this  seclusion  and  protested 
that  Mr.  Booth  should  accept  the  hospitality  of  the 
theatre  in  the  shape  of  a  box.  But  this  he  would  never 
do,  his  visit  being  always  unexpected,  and  his  seat  always 
in  the  balcony. 

I  never  heard  from  him,  how  he  liked  the  plays,  or 
whether  he  congratulated  himself  or  not  that  he  had 
refrained  from  becoming  my  godfather.  It  is  quite 
possible  that  he  experienced  a  melancholy  satisfaction 
while  contemplating  me  that  he  was  in  no  way  respon- 
sible for  so  eccentric  and  restless  a  comedian.  When 
later  on  the  Players'  Club  was  established,  I  would  meet 
Mr.  Booth  occasionally,  and  he  would  speak  with  affec- 
tion of  his  early  association  with  my  father  and  mother. 

Many  years  after  his  death  I  was  greatly  surprised 
and  touched  to  receive  from  his  daughter,  Mrs.  Gross- 
man, the  pouch  which  her  father  was  accustomed  to  wear 


From  a  photograph  by  A.  A.  Turner  in  the  collection  of  Robert  Cosier 
EDWIN    BOOTH 


MEADOW-LARKS  AND  GIANTS'  ROBES    335 

in  "Hamlet,"  with  a  very  charming  letter  saying  that 
she  had  witnessed  our  production  of  that  tragedy. 

It  is  a  pleasant  figure  of  speech  to  declare  that  one 
steps  into  this  man's  shoes  or  wears  that  man's  mantle, 
but,  alas !  inhabiting  the  shoes  and  upholding  the  mantle 
is  but  the  office  of  a  dummy.  These  seven-league  boots 
may  run  away  with  one's  reputation,  and  this  giant's 
robe  incontinently  smother  one. 

One  of  the  least  glorious  actors  I  have  known  had  a 
mania  for  the  collecting  of  wardrobe  belonging  to  the 
great  ones  of  the  past.  He  would  come  on  the  stage 
wearing  shoes  which  had  belonged  to  Edwin  Booth,  a 
cloak  which  had  once  enfolded  Forrest,  a  sword  wielded 
by  Edmund  Kean,  jewels  which  had  reposed  upon  the 
breast  of  Charlotte  Cushman,  a  ring  which  had  been 
worn  by  Adelaide  Neilson,  a  wig  presented  to  him  by 
Richard  Mansfield.  So  conscious  was  he  of  his  relics 
that  he  could  never  attend  to  the  business  in  hand. 
He  actually  would  assume  during  one  brief  speech  the 
manners  of  these  several  people;  so  that  he  might  enter 
as  Forrest,  address  you  as  Cushman,  bid  you  farewell 
as  Mansfield,  and  exit  as  Kean. 

Every  article  that  he  wore  had  its  association. 

I  ventured  to  suggest  that  the  many  reminiscences 
conjured  up  by  his  various  garments  distracted  his  at- 
tention on  a  certain  occasion. 

"Oh,  not  at  all!"  he  replied;  "not  at  all.  You  see, 
I  was  in  the  navy." 

The  application  was  not  exactly  clear,  but  I  concluded 
after  much  reflection  that  this  explained  the  fact  that 
he  was  so  constantly  at  sea. 

I  must  say  that  I  have  great  sympathy  with  these 
collectors  of  odds  and  ends,  and  those  same  covetous 


336  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

desires  deplored  in  the  baptismal  office  beset  me  on  all 
sides.  I  have  not  yet  yielded  to  my  naval  friend's  weak- 
ness for  wearing  the  clothes  of  departed  greatness,  but 
I  glory  in  a  treasure-house  of  the  same.  This  lust  of  pos- 
session is  surely  a  matter  of  atavism.  The  bird  must 
build  and  own  its  particular  nest,  and  discover  and  pos- 
sess its  own  peculiar  worm,  defending  it  with  bill  and  claw. 
Why  do  I  love  the  ancient  chair  wherein  I  sit  less  when  it 
belongs  to  another  than  when  it  belongs  to  me  ?  Though 
still  in  the  chair,  am  I  not  out  of  pocket  ?  And  why 
does  the  patch  of  ground  I  have  paid  for  fill  me  with  a 
gratification  which  the  magnificent  estate  of  my  neigh- 
bor cannot  by  any  means  create  ?  It  is  certainly  not  a 
question  of  beauty,  for  his  park  puts  my  little  garden 
to  shame.  I  can  see  his  groves  for  nothing,  and  my  one 
acre  costs  my  all.  My  collection  of  stamps  and  my 
cabinet  of  birds'  eggs  elated  me  with  a  pride  which  the 
more  splendid  endeavors  of  Philatelist  Smith  or  Ornithol- 
ogist Brown  were  powerless  to  produce.  After  wander- 
ing through  the  palaces  of  the  world  I  contemplate  my 
single  Tudor  wedding-chest,  my  one  trestle-table,  and 
my  solitary  Elizabethan  four-post  bedstead  with  in- 
creased affection  and  enthusiasm.  They  are  mine,  and 
what's  mine's  my  own. 

But  this  is  adoring  the  vain  pomp  and  glory  of  the 
world,  and  probably  denotes  an  inclination  toward  the 
devil  and  all  his  works.  One's  godfather  would  have  a 
sorry  problem  here. 

Therefore  my  sorrow  that  Mr.  Booth  was  no  godfather 
of  mine  is  mitigated  by  the  reflection  that  he  was  spared 
some  concern  on  my  behalf. 

Every  now  and  again  one  encounters  the  comment 
that  it  is  a  detriment  to  the  conception  of  the  dramatist 


MEADOW-LARKS  AND  GIANTS'  ROBES    337 

for  his  characters  to  be  impersonated — that  to  associate 
this,  that,  or  the  other  actor  or  actress  with  the  Shake- 
spearian personages  limits  the  imagination  and  controls 
the  fancy.  Such  critics  surely  pay  a  poor  compliment 
to  their  own  intelligence  which  should  be  capable  of  re- 
jecting the  incompetent  while  accepting  what  is  excel- 
lent. A  reader  must  perforce  form  some  image  in  his 
mind  of  the  characters  he  contemplates.  Even  our  gods 
and  our  devils,  and  our  heavens  and  hells  take  some 
shape.  It  is  seldom,  of  course,  that  so  entirely  satis- 
factory a  realization  of  the  poet's  ideal  occurs  as  in  the 
case  of  Mr.  Booth's  "Hamlet."  Even  the  querulous 
Lamb  could  have  found  no  fault  there.  The  very  first 
words  I  ever  heard  concerning  the  player's  art  dealt 
with  this  same  impersonation  when  my  father  and 
mother  were  discussing  the  production  at  the  Winter 
Garden  in  New  York.  Although  I  did  not  witness  a 
performance  of  "Hamlet"  until  1879,  I  am  quite  sure 
that  my  mother's  description,  and  the  little  photograph 
of  Mr.  Booth  helped  me  greatly  to  understand  and  to 
love  the  tragedy. 

Had  my  mind  had  nothing  to  feed  upon  but  the  lame 
elocution  of  my  schoolmasters,  who  indulged  in  a  very 
false  gallop  of  verses,  I  should  soon  have  wearied  of  the 
poet's  lines.  But  the  actor's  picture  and  the  knowledge 
of  the  effects  he  had  created  made  me  eager  to  enjoy  the 
story.  The  many  thousands  in  this  workaday  world 
who  have  little  time  to  devote  to  reading  plays  would 
not  sacrifice  their  memories  of  Booth's  prince  for  all  the 
dissertations  of  the  scholars,  who,  with  due  respect, 
will,  on  this  particular  theme,  sometimes  grow  "as 
tedious  as  a  King." 

All  the  world  is  aware  of  Edwin  Booth  the  tragedian, 


338  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

but  here  is  rosemary  of  his  own  planting  which  may  well 
be  gathered  from  an  old  number  of  the  Century  Magazine, 
and  placed  upon  his  grave  for  remembrance — a  letter 
written  to  his  friend,  William  Bispham: 

Anent  a  certain  friend,  a  poor  player  who  struts, 
etc.,  but  one  I  love  with  all  the  tenderness  a  son  might 
bear  for  a  father,  one  of  the  oldest  and  the  dearest  old 
duffers  the  good  God  ever  made !  Perpend  ! (be- 
loved by  his  kind)  approacheth  now  the  time  when  the 
oil  burneth  low  and  the  wick  waxeth  brief.  He  wants 
to  settle  in  New  York — his  dear  old  wife  and  he — in 
apartments,  in  a  good  location  on  an  economical  plan, 
and  loaf  out  the  rest  of  their  winters.  The  thought 
struck  me  that  you  could  give  me  all  the  points  touching 
the  subject.  Say  if  he  wished  to  buy  the  furniture  of  a 
flat  of  perhaps  five  or  six  rooms,  in  some  neighborhood 
you  know,  can  you  give  me  an  idea  of  what  it  would  cost 
for  rent  ?  Say  a  lease  of  several  years,  cosy  and  plainly 
furnished  and  one  servant,  a  cook,  for  example.  Do  you 
know  of  such  a  chance  for  next  year  ?  And  can  you  give 
me  an  idea  of  rent,  cost  of  furniture,  servant's  wages,  and 
other  little  details  requisite  for  the  comfort  of  a  dear  old 
couple  of  antique  babies  ?  Let  me  know  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible for  they  contemplate  selling  their  house,  and  re- 
tiring on  a  small  income — I  want  to  locate  them  in  New 
York — for  the  balance  of  their  earthly  sojourn,  which 
can't  be  many  centuries  longer.  This  entre  nous.  I 
thought  I'd  find,  say,  four  or  five  cosey  rooms  and  furnish 
them  comfortably,  rent  the  place  for  several  years,  and 
relieve  them  of  all  cares  for  the  future.  No  one  but  you, 
they,  and  I  are  to  know  the  facts,  and  even  you  must 
be  ignorant  so  far  as  they  know. 


XXXVI 
"MY  OWN  SHALL  COME  TO  ME" 

FALSE  spiritualism  and  those  pretenders  who  trade 
upon  the  credulity  of  the  superstitious  and  unhappy — 
these  were  especial  antipathies  of  my  father.  It  was  he, 
in  conjunction  with  the  late  Sir  Henry  Irving,  who, 
about  1868,  exposed  the  tricks  of  the  celebrated  Daven- 
port Brothers  in  London;  not  because  they  were  tricks, 
but  because  they  claimed  their  wonders  were  controlled 
by  spiritual  influence.  My  father  and  Irving  performed 
all  the  Davenport  miracles  on  a  public  stage,  showing 
that  they  were  merely  conjurers'  inventions.  The  house 
we  lived  in  was  a  veritable  wonderland,  for  my  father 
in  his  study  of  magic  had  all  kinds  of  paraphernalia  in- 
stalled. The  place  was  wired  throughout,  so  that  trap- 
doors in  floors  or  walls  would  open  and  swallow  or  eject 
various  objects.  For  example,  at  a  certain  seance  a 
peculiar  shoe-buckle,  procured  after  vast  search  and 
trouble,  was  projected  with  precision  from  behind  a  clock 
onto  the  centre  of  the  dining-room  table,  so  that  a  cer- 
tain unbeliever  should  receive  this  token,  the  long-lost 
fellow  of  one  in  his  possession.  I  saw  this  projection 
practised  with  infinite  pains,  so  that  the  shoe-buckle 
would  land  exactly  where  the  victim  was  seated.  A 
small  trap-door  was  made  under  the  table.  This  opened 
with  the  pressing  of  a  button.  Within  the  trap  was  a 
basin  of  ice-water.  During  the  demonstrations,  my 
father  would  surreptitiously  take  off  his  shoe  and  sock, 

339 


34o  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

place  his  foot  in  the  ice-water,  dry  it  on  a  napkin,  and, 
under  cover  of  the  dimmed  light,  present  a  ghostly  and 
clammy  hand  (foot,  of  course)  to  some  one  under  the 
table.  Usually,  when  he  had  sufficiently  mystified  his 
guests,  he  would  tell  them  that  all  his  wonders  were 
mechanical  tricks.  He  hated  the  humbug  of  spiritualism, 
but  really  believed  deeply  in  actual  spiritual  manifesta- 
tions. 

I  mention  these  facts  to  make  clear  that  I,  having  been 
accustomed  to  the  exposing  of  trickery  since  childhood, 
was  not  likely  to  be  readily  deceived  by  supernatural 
experiences.  We  have  all  encountered  the  "amazing  co- 
incidence," and  may  have  paused,  perhaps,  to  consider 
how  strange  it  is  that  the  paths  of  two  persons  shall, 
after  wandering  hither  and  thither  all  over  the  globe, 
in  an  apparently  aimless  and  unconnected  manner,  sud- 
denly assume  a  direct  relation  to  each  other;  shall  cross 
or  connect,  so  that  a  clash  or  climax  of  circumstances  is 
the  result.  Two  sets  of  events — hastening,  retarding,  di- 
recting— each  covering  a  period  of  years,  the  links  of 
each  chain  being  forged  day  by  day,  the  victories  or 
the  defeats  of  the  two  lives,  keeping  those  lives  in  the 
precise  path  where  they  will  finally  collide,  at  a  ball, 
at  a  street  corner,  on  a  train.  This  is,  of  course,  an  or- 
dinary reflection,  but  instances  are  always  entertaining. 

This  instance  concerns  a  match-box,  a  snuff-box,  a 
bronze  equestrian  statue,  a  pair  of  paste  shoe-buckles, 
a  leather  cigar-case,  and  a  walking-stick  with  a  cloi- 
sonne handle.  From  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  the 
footsteps  of  the  people  here  discussed  approached  one 
another.  Failure  and  success,  health  and  sickness, 
moulded  the  succession  of  events  which  brought  them 
hour  by  hour  to  the  cross-roads  where  they  encountered 


"MY  OWN  SHALL  COME  TO  ME"       341 

after  many  days.  In  our  drawing-room  at  "The  Cedars," 
Kensington,  there  stood  a  curio-table  with  a  glass  top. 
Under  the  glass  cover,  ever  since  I  can  remember  any- 
thing, I  remember  the  articles  enumerated  above,  with 
the  exception  of  the  equestrian  statue  in  bronze,  which 
stood  on  the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room.  This  was  a 
statue  of  my  father  on  horseback  with  two  dogs  looking 
up  at  him.  I  remember  the  sculptor  modelling  the  horse 
in  the  stable-yard. 

It  has  been  my  observation  that  when  people  die  their 
small  and  more  intimate  belongings  disappear  in  quite 
a  mysterious  way.  Whether  it  is  that  our  elders  give 
them  away  as  souvenirs,  or  whether  the  articles  walk 
off  of  their  own  accord,  when  he  who  most  cherished  them 
is  gone,  certain  it  is  that  things  vanish.  I  recall,  I  say, 
all  of  these  articles  mentioned,  and  then  I  became  aware 
one  day  that  they  no  longer  existed.  Where,  I  said  to 
myself  one  morning,  my  mind  harking  back,  as  is  some- 
times the  case,  to  that  curio-table — where  are  those 
shoe-buckles  which  belonged  to  David  Garrick  ?  And 
where  the  cloisonne  walking-stick,  also  the  property  of 
that  great  actor  ?  Where  is  that  snuff-box  which  be- 
longed to  Listen  ?  Where  is  that  big  leather  cigar-case 
with  the  initials  in  gold  on  the  outside  ?  and  finally  I 
wondered  where  was  the  statue  of  my  father  on  horse- 
back, and  where  the  small  gold  match-box  in  the  form  of 
a  portmanteau,  which  had  been  presented  to  my  father 
by  the  late  King  Edward  when  he  was  Prince  of  Wales. 
As  the  event  will  disclose,  these  articles  had  travelled 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  when  the  hour  had  struck 
they  turned,  as  though  they  were  so  many  needles  on 
the  mariner's  compass,  and  pointed  toward  me,  as  though 
I  were  the  true  magnetic  pole.  By  devious  ways  and 


342  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

through  many  hands,  oversea  and  overland,  these  things 
made  their  way  to  me  who  wanted  them  back.  They 
seemed  to  actually  escape  from  one  person  to  another 
who  should  more  readily  carry  them  nearer  and  nearer 
to  me,  who  during  this  time  continued  to  see  them  in  the 
mind's  eye  ever  in  that  drawing-room  under  the  glass  top 
of  that  curio-table. 

To  begin  with  the  match-box,  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
at  the  time  he  gave  the  box  to  my  father,  was  very  fond 
of  riding  to  hounds.  My  father,  too,  was  passionately 
fond  of  hunting.  The  prince  had  been  exceedingly  kind 
to  him  on  many  occasions,  and  one  day  on  the  field 
presented  him  with  this  small  gold  match-box.  Shortly 
afterward,  my  father  met  with  a  bad  accident  while 
hunting.  He  was  thrown  from  his  horse  against  a  tree; 
his  arm  was  broken  and  his  eye  badly  damaged.  He  was 
carried  unconscious  to  a  farmhouse  near  by.  When  he 
recovered  his  senses  and  prepared  to  depart,  he  observed 
that  the  match-box,  which  he  had  worn  attached  to  his  " 
gold  chain,  had  been  broken  off.  Farm-hands  were  sent 
to  the  scene  of  the  accident,  but  could  find  no  trace  of 
it.  My  father  begged  the  farmer  to  institute  a  search 
and  offered  a  reward,  but  no  sign  of  the  box  was  dis- 
covered. A  duplicate  box  was  ordered  from  "Coster," 
the  jeweller,  who  had  made  the  original,  and  this  duplicate 
my  father  wore  for  some  years.  When  my  elder  brother 
was  about  to  depart  on  a  professional  engagement  to 
Australia,  my  father  gave  him  this  duplicate.  My  brother, 
when  about  to  return  from  Australia,  gave  the  duplicate 
to  one  Mr.  Labertouche,  who  had  shown  him  much  kind- 
ness. Labertouche,  in  turn,  gave  the  duplicate  to  an 
actor,  Arthur  Lawrence,  who  in  the  year  1890  joined  my 
company  in  New  York.  We  will  leave  the  fortunes  of 


"MY  OWN  SHALL  COME  TO  ME"       343 

the  duplicate  for  the  moment  with  Arthur  Lawrence. 
Meantime,  the  original  match-box  had  never  been  found. 
One  day  my  brother  Sam,  who  inherited  my  father's 
passion  for  hunting,  was  riding  to  hounds.  He  got  into 
conversation  with  an  old  farmer  who  rode  beside  him, 
and  during  the  talk  divulged  his  name — Sothern.  "Are 
you  the  son  of  Dundreary  Sothern?"  said  the  farmer. 

"Yes,"  said  my  brother. 

"I  want  you  to  take  a  bite  with  me  after  the  run," 
said  the  farmer;  "I  have  something  to  show  you." 

My  brother  went.  The  farmer,  while  lunch  was  pre- 
paring, went  to  the  cupboard;  then,  approaching  my 
brother,  said: 

"Twenty  years  ago  your  father  lost  this  match-box 
in  my  field.  This  morning  one  of  my  men  was  ploughing 
and  found  it.  Accept  it." 

Please  observe  that  the  paths  of  my  brother  and  the 
farmer  crossed  for  the  first  time  on  the  very  morning 
on  which  the  match-box  had  been  ploughed  up  after 
being  buried  for  twenty  years.  My  brother  wrote  me 
an  account  of  this  curious  coincidence.  I  received  the 
letter  while  I  was  travelling.  I  was  seated  in  a  Pullman 
car  with  Arthur  Lawrence  by  my  side.  He  had  just 
joined  my  company  that  day.  My  manager  brought 
me  my  brother's  letter.  I  read  his  account  of  the  in- 
cident. I  then  told  Lawrence  the  strange  history  of  the 
match-box  and  said:  "I  wonder  what  became  of  the 
duplicate." 

"Here  it  is!"  said  Lawrence,  showing  it  to  me  on  his 
watch-chain. 

Observe  again  that  Lawrence  had  joined  me  that  day, 
that  he  was  seated  beside  me  when  I  opened  my  brother's 
letter,  that  he  had  recently  arrived  from  Australia  and 


344  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

had  applied  to  me,  a  total  stranger,  for  an  engagement. 
Over  the  years,  oversea,  overland,  he  had  brought  this 
duplicate  match-box  to  me  at  the  exact  moment  that  I 
received  news  of  the  finding  of  the  original  after  twenty 
years.  Lawrence  gave  me  the  box.  Both  boxes  have 
come  home. 

An  agent  in  my  employment,  named  Craeger,  said  to 
me  one  day  in  Saint  Louis:  "There's  a  snuff-box  in  a  bar- 
room down-town,  and  the  barkeeper  says  it  belonged 
to  your  father." 

Said  I:  "It  is  an  octagonal  box,  made  of  brass,  and  it 
has  paste  stones  on  the  outside  about  as  large  as  peas. 
Inside  is  this  inscription:  'From  William  Listen  to  the 
Reverend  Charles  Klanert — From  the  Reverend  Charles 
Klanert  to  his  son,  James  Klanert — From  James  Klanert 
to  E.  A.  Sothern,  1870.'" 

"That's  the  one,"  said  Craeger.    "Have  you  seen  it  ?" 

"Not  since  I  was  about  eight  years  old,"  said  I. 

We  went  to  the  barroom.  I  examined  the  box.  I 
asked  the  man  where  he  had  obtained  it.  He  was  rather 
mysterious,  and  would  not  say.  I  offered  to  buy  it  from 
him.  He  would  not  sell  it.  "Well,"  said  I,  "I'll  leave 
you  my  address  in  case  you  change  your  mind;  mean- 
time, leave  it  to  me  in  your  will  if  you  die."  I  went  my 
way,  sad  at  heart,  for  I  wanted  the  snuff-box  badly. 

Two  years  afterward,  a  bell-boy  at  the  Virginia  Hotel 
in  Chicago  announced:  "A  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir." 

"What  gentleman?"  said  I.  "Go  and  ask  his  name." 
A  strange  name  appeared  on  a  card.  "Well,  show  him 
up,"  said  I. 

A  tall  man  appeared,  a  perfect  stranger.  "I  have 
come  to  give  you  this  snuff-box,"  said  he,  and  he  handed 
me  the  box;  "also  this  cigar-case,"  and  he  handed jne  the 


"MY  OWN  SHALL  COME  TO  ME"       345 

leather  cigar-case  with  the  initials  in  gold.  "They  be- 
longed to  my  father,"  said  he,  "who  received  them 
from  Mr.  Connor,  the  manager  of  John  McCullough." 

I  thanked  him  and  remarked:  "I  saw  this  snuff-box 
two  years  ago  in  a  barroom  in  Saint  Louis." 

"Never!"  said  he.  "It  has  been  in  a  glass  case  in  my 
mother's  sitting-room  under  lock  and  key  for  fifteen  years." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  I,  "but  I  went  to  the  place  and 
handled  the  box  and  read  the  inscription  and  offered  to 
buy  it." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  replied  my  benefactor  smiling 
kindly.  "The  box  has  never  been  out  of  our  house  since 
we  received  it  from  Mr.  Connor.  We  have  valued  it 
highly,  but  I  want  you  to  have  it."  With  some  generous 
and  complimentary  remarks  he  departed. 

The  thing  is  inexplicable.  But  the  box  had  walked 
into  my  hands  at  last. 

A  certain  storage  house  sent  me  a  letter  one  fine  day 
to  say  that  a  trunk  belonging  to  my  father  was  in  its 
possession.  I  sent  for  it.  It  contained  some  odds  and 
ends  of  old  theatrical  wardrobe.  I  took  out  a  pair  of 
square-cut  shoes.  In  the  toe  of  each  shoe  was  a  silk 
stocking.  Wrapped  in  each  silk  stocking  was  one  of 
those  buckles  which  had  belonged  to  David  Garrick,  and 
which  had  been  presented  to  my  father  when  he  first 
produced  a  play  of  that  name  in  London  about  1870.  I 
opened  a  very  dilapidated  make-up  box.  There  was  the 
handle  of  the  cloisonne  walking-stick;  the  stick  itself, 
which  had  been  of  ebony,  was  missing.  Said  I: 

"Serene  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  or  tide,  or  sea, 
I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate 
For  lo !  my  own  shall  come  to  me." 


346  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Last  year  my  brother  entered  his  dressing-room  one 
night  in  London.  The  actor  who  dressed  with  him  said: 
"Sam,  I  saw  a  bronze  statue  of  you  on  horseback  in 
a  shop  in  King's  Road,  Chelsea." 

"Never  had  a  statue  in  my  life,"  said  Sam. 

The  man  assured  him  that  in  a  pawnbroker's  window 
was  the  statue  with  a  placard  reading,  "Mr.  Sam 
Sothern."  My  brother  went  to  the  place  indicated. 
There  was  the  statue.  He  went  in  and  questioned  the 
pawnbroker,  who  knew  nothing  about  it  except  that 
there  it  was,  and  that  the  price  was  so  much.  My  brother 
bought  it.  Where  had  that  bronze  horse  carried  my 
poor  father  during  forty  years  ?  Through  what  lands 
had  he  and  his  two  dogs  wandered  by  hill  and  dale  ? 
What  adventure  had  landed  him  in  this  pawnbroker's 
shop  in  Chelsea  ?  Who  had  harbored  him  in  content 
or  sold  him  in  poverty  ?  At  last  we  have  him  home  again, 
and  that  is  enough. 

I  was  relating  these  circumstances  to  a  young  woman 
in  my  company  one  day,  a  rather  reserved,  quiet,  watch- 
ful girl. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  she.  "All  one  has  to  do  is  to 
wait.  You,"  she  continued,  "did  not  go  out  to  seek 
these  things,  they  sought  you." 

"Where  did  you  learn  so  much  wisdom?"  said  I. 

"From  the  ceiling  people,"  replied  this  strange  girl. 

"The  ceiling  people  ?" 

"Yes.  Yours  may  be  different.  Mine  are  the  ceiling 
people,"  and  she  went  on  to  tell  me  that  ever  since  she 
could  remember  she  had  known  and  talked  with  and 
actually  seen,  not  with  her  imagination,  but  with  her 
bodily  organs  of  sight,  certain  people  whom  she  had 
first  as  a  child  pictured  in  the  ceiling.  Later,  they  came 


"MY  OWN  SHALL  COME  TO  ME"       347 

in  at  the  gate  and  drove  up  to  the  house  and  entered 
therein.  Nobody  else  saw  them  ever.  She  knew  them 
by  name,  and  would  look  from  the  window  and  announce 
their  arrival:  "Here  come  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Westover," 
she  would  say,  and  she  would  help  them  out  of  their  cart 
and  take  them  into  the  house,  entertain  them  for  hours, 
bid  them  good-by,  and  discuss  their  visit  after  their 
departure.  "I  saw  them  as  plainly  as  I  see  you,"  said 
she.  "They  have  watched  over  me  and  helped  me  al- 
ways." 

"It  was  your  vivid,  childish  imagination,"  I  ventured. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  she,  rather  impatiently.  "I  saw 
them  with  my  eyes." 

"Do  you  see  them  still  ?"  said  I. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "They  have  gone  back  again 
into  the  ceiling." 

My  brother  Sam,  up  to  the  age  of  thirteen  years  had 
as  constant  playmates  several  little  people,  especially  one 
small  old  man  clad  in  a  green  jerkin  and  tights,  who 
would  appear  on  the  pole  supporting  the  window  curtains. 
They  would  slide  down  the  curtains  and  play  with  him 
for  hours.  He  used  to  speak  of  them  to  his  nurse  and 
his  mother,  but  as  he  was  given  a  dose  of  medicine  every 
time  he  mentioned  them  he  ceased  to  talk  of  his  experi- 
ence. He  tells  me  that  he  was  thirteen  years  old  when 
they  last  appeared  to  him,  and  that  in  his  remembrance 
they  were  not  creatures  of  his  imagination  but  actual 
beings. 

Alas !  I  never  have  had  any  "ceiling  people"  to  search 
the  seas  over  and  bring  back  to  me  my  strayed  memen- 
tos. They  came  on  more  prosaic  wings.  The  imagina- 
tion of  a  child  is  extremely  sensitive  and  vivid,  and  one 
can  easily  believe  that  children  seem  really  to  see  the 


348  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

creatures  of  their  fancy.  It  is  not  frequently,  however, 
that  grown-up  people  are  so  convinced.  I  know  of  two 
aged  persons  who  are  childless.  But  their  long  and 
constant  desire  for  children  has  become  such  an  ob- 
session that  they  are  persuaded  that  certain  children 
have  actually  come  to  them  in  the  spirit  though  not  in 
the  body;  that  these  children  have  really  been  born 
to  their  souls;  that  they  are  present  and  that  they  can 
communicate  with  them;  that  they  come  and  go  and 
exchange  thought,  and  this  to  them  is  no  delusion  but 
an  actual  consciousness.  They  play  with  them,  con- 
verse with  them,  are  aware  of  their  arrival  and  their 
departure.  These  are  not  "ceiling  people,"  but  "chil- 
dren of  desire." 

The  point  where  imagination  becomes  delusion  is 
hard  to  define.  Mr.  George  Augustus  Sala  was  remark- 
able for  his  precise  memory.  He  once  explained  to 
my  father  that  he  had  arranged  in  his  imagination  a 
large  room  the  walls  of  which  were  rilled  with  shelves; 
the  shelves  divided  into  partitions;  the  partitions  sub- 
divided into  a  certain  number  of  small  spaces.  Each 
space  contained  a  small  drawer  numbered  or  lettered — 
the  entire  arrangement  purely  imaginary.  But  Sala 
declared  that  it  was  so  actual  to  him  that,  when  in  need 
of  recalling  certain  information,  he  could  open  the  door 
of  this  room,  enter,  select  with  precision  the  shelf,  the 
partition,  the  subdivision,  the  drawer,  the  book  or  the 
bundle  and  the  document  in  the  bundle,  and  turning  to 
the  page  recover  at  once  the  matter  he  was  in  search  of. 
Here  are  no  "ceiling  people,"  no  "children  of  desire," 
but  granaries  of  the  mind. 

But  neither  the  "ceiling  people,"  nor  the  children  of 
the  heart,  nor  the  storehouses  of  the  intellect  exhaust 


COURTYARD    OF    HOUSE    IN    NEW    ORLEANS   WHERE 

EDWARD    H.    SOTHERN    WAS    BORN, 

DECEMBER   6,    1859 


"MY  OWN  SHALL  COME  TO  ME"       349 

the  resources  of  the  imaginative  human  being.  It  is 
agreeable  to  contemplate  the  adventures  of  things  tan- 
gible, but  thrice  happy  is  he  or  she  who  can  dispense 
with  real-estate  agents  and  payments  of  silver  and  gold, 
and  live  and  move  and  have  his  being  in  a  house  which 
has  no  existence  whatsoever  except  in  the  mind.  Such 
is  the  joyous  state  of  one  I  know  who  saunters  by  a  river 
which  is  not,  enters  a  boat  which  has  no  being,  rows  to 
an  island  which  is  on  no  chart,  disembarks  upon  a  strand 
where  mortal  has  never  trod,  and  daily  proceeds  to  a 
house  which  is  but  the  figment  of  a  dream. 

"I  have  killed  'Little  Nell,'"  cried  the  weeping  Charles 
Dickens  when  the  creature  of  his  fancy  had  been  slain 
by  a  stroke  of  his  pen,  so  real  to  him  had  become  the 
creation  of  his  brain.  When  I  have  seen  my  friend 
smiling  apart  with  half  closed  eyes:  "Where  are  you 
now?"  I  have  said. 

"On  my  river,"  answered  she;  or,  "In  the  great  hall 
by  the  oriel  window";  or,  "In  the  long  gallery;  I  am 
looking  out  on  the  hills."  For  let  it  be  known  that  this 
is  a  staid  Elizabethan  house,  very  quaint  and  still  and 
old,  surrounded  by  great  trees  and  quite  full  of  ancient 
Tudor  furnishings.  Once  there  was  a  moat  about  it, 
but  that  has  been  done  away  with  in  the  course  of  time 
by  simply  thinking  that  it  was  no  longer  there.  There 
have  been  many  alterations  and  the  whole  structure 
has  frequently  been  moved  from  one  part  of  the  coun- 
try to  another  overnight.  For  years  and  years  the 
owner  has  been  looking  forward  with  intense  desire  to 
possessing  a  house  in  the  country  districts  of  England. 
She  has  studied  the  country  houses  of  that  dear  gray 
land  until  she  is  actually  an  authority  on  the  subject. 
She  has  concentrated  her  mind  to  such  an  extent  on  the 


350  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

matter  that  during  the  last  few  years  the  precise  house 
she  desires  has  taken  concrete  form.  She  actually  lives 
in  her  house.  She  exists  in  it.  She  drives  through  the 
great  iron  gates,  and  up  the  stately  avenue.  She  lifts 
the  remembered  curious  knocker.  She  sounds  the  long- 
beloved-quaint  old  bell. 

To  possess  one's  house  without  either  rent  or  pur- 
chase is  to  live  indeed  rent-free,  care-free,  fancy-free. 
By  the  mere  process  of  thought  to  be  able  to  remove  one's 
dwelling  from  valley  to  mountain-top;  to  be  solitary  or 
surrounded  by  a  retinue,  and,  best  of  all,  to  be  attached 
to  one's  castle  in  the  air  by  such  strong  threads  of  love 
that  one  can  draw  it  nearer  and  nearer  day  by  day  until 
at  last  one  enters  the  door  and  sinks  down  to  rest  by  the 
fireside,  so  after  many  days  to  find  one's  dream  come 
true. 


XXXVII 
THE  EMPTY  CHAIR 

ALTHOUGH  he  was  distinctly  a  rolling-stone,  my  father 
gathered  moss  in  the  shape  of  friends  to  an  extent  nothing 
short  of  marvellous.  His  were  not  the  friendships  of  an 
hour  or  a  day;  they  lasted  long  after  he  himself  had 
passed  away.  I  inherited  many  of  these  friendships, 
and  among  the  dearest  and  best  was  that  of  Captain 
John  Shackford,  of  Philadelphia.  It  was  not  my  fortune 
to  see  Captain  Shackford  often,  but  those  occasions 
when  I  did  meet  him  are  fraught  with  tender  memories. 
He  had  been  the  commander  of  one  of  the  White  Star 
Line  steamers.  My  father  had  often  crossed  the  ocean 
with  him,  and  they  had  become  fast  friends.  When  I 
first  began  to  obtain  some  success  in  America,  Captain 
Shackford  looked  me  up  and  asked  me  to  dinner.  I 
went  gladly  enough.  The  captain  himself  and  a  friend 
of  his  and  his  wife,  four  of  us,  composed  the  party  at  the 
Bellevue  Hotel.  The  table  was  laid  for  five  persons, 
but  we  began  dinner  with  one  place  empty.  This  place 
was  for  my  father,  who  had  long  been  dead. 

When  dinner  was  over,  Captain  Shackford  arose  and 
addressed  the  gathering.  One  would  have  thought  that 
there  were  a  hundred  people  present.  He  began:  "Mr. 
Chairman,"  addressing  his  friend  opposite,  whom,  for 
convenience,  I  will  call  Mr.  Feathers.  "Mr.  Chairman," 
said  the  captain,  "Ladies"  (to  Mrs.  Feathers)  "and 
Guests"  (to  me):  "We  have  with  us  to-night — "  then 

351 


352  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

he  launched  forth  with  a  eulogy  of  my  father,  serious, 
gentle,  and  tender.  He  proposed  his  health,  and  drank 
in  silence.  Then  he  resumed  his  seat  to  the  applause 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Feathers.  Feathers  then  arose  and 
responded.  The  captain  then  got  on  his  feet  again  and 
made  an  oration  of  some  minutes  without  mentioning 
my  name,  but  pointedly  discussing  the  son  of  my  father, 
alluding  to  my  various  steps  toward  popularity  and 
generously  criticising  my  progress.  This,  too,  was  inter- 
rupted by  applause  and  very  meaning  glances  from  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Feathers,  as  much  as  to  say:  "I  fancy  he 
must  mean  you."  At  length  the  captain  wound  up  by 
waving  his  hand  toward  me  and  saying:  "I  need 
scarcely  say  that  I  allude  to  our  guest,  Mr.  Edward 
Sothern,  the  son  of  his  father."  I  then  got  on  my  legs 
and  haltingly  offered  my  thanks  amid  great  enthusiasm. 
The  formalities  having  been  complied  with,  with  great 
solemnity — not  at  all  as  a  joke — we  then  came  down  to 
earth  and  to  cheerful  conversation. 

Every  year,  for  many  years,  this  same  thing  took 
place.  Shackford  would  come  all  the  way  from  New 
York  to  show  me  this  kindness.  Always 'there  was  the 
vacant  chair;  always  the  address  to  my  father;  always 
the  same  adulation  of  myself,  as  though  I  were  not  aware 
whom  he  was  discussing. 

Captain  Shackford  was  one  of  the  most  peaceful  of 
men,  but  my  father,  perhaps  for  that  reason,  was  con- 
stantly making  him  presents  of  huge  firearms.  When 
he  died,  the  captain  left  me  a  brace  of  these — two  enor- 
mous revolvers. 

One  experience  he  had  with  my  father  was  a  precious 
one  which  he  loved  to  relate.  It  seems  they  had  under- 
taken to  attend  two  parties  on  one  evening  in  London; 


CAPTAIN    JOHN    SHACKFORD 


THE  EMPTY  CHAIR  353 

one  was  a  ball  in  a  private  house,  and  the  other  was  a 
children's  party.  My  father,  in  order  to  amuse  the  chil- 
dren, had  engaged  a  man  to  induce  the  servants  of  the 
establishment  by  certain  largess  to  permit  him,  the  man, 
to  take  up  a  position  on  the  roof  so  that  he  might  talk 
down  the  chimney.  My  father's  plan  was  to  indulge  in 
some  ventriloquial  acts,  and  astonish  the  children  with  the 
voice  from  above.  Certain  questions  and  replies,  and  a 
code  of  signals  had  been  carefully  arranged.  As  luck 
would  have  it,  however,  my  father  got  the  houses  mixed 
up.  As  the  servant  was  about  to  open  the  drawing- 
room  door  of  the  first  house  they  entered,  he  said  to 
Shackford:  "Now  we'll  make  the  children  laugh;  let 
us  enter  on  all  fours." 

The  two  men  got  down  on  their  hands  and  knees,  my 
father  winking  at  the  servant  and  taking  him  into  his 
confidence.  "Now,"  said  he,  "open  the  door  and  an- 
nounce us."  The  man  did  so  solemnly  enough.  Shack- 
ford  and  my  father  crawled  in.  It  was  the  grown-up 
party !  The  people  were,  naturally,  amazed,  but  my 
father,  was  as  usual,  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"Stay  where  you  are,"  said  he  under  his  breath  to 
the  humiliated  Shackford;  then,  aloud:  "Quick!"  he 
whispered,  "all  of  you  flat  on  the  floor.  A  man  has 
escaped  from  the  county  jail,  and  they  are  about  to 
shoot  with  rifles  from  across  the  street.  They  say  they 
have  seen  him  on  the  balcony.  Quick!  for  your  lives!" 

So  serious  and  intense  was  his  tone  that  actually  most 
of  the  people  went  flat  on  the  floor.  Others  started  to 
investigate;  the  host  especially  rushed  out  with  great 
fortitude  onto  the  balcony.  The  hoax  seemed  about  to 
explode  when  a  voice  came  down  the  chimney  saying  in 
stentorian  tones:  "Look  here!  I've  had  enough  of  this, 


354  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

it's  as  cold  as  hell  up  here."  It  was  the  man  who  should 
have  been  on  the  roof  at  the  children's  party,  and  who 
also  had  been  directed  to  the  wrong  house.  A  stampede 
followed. 

"The  escaped  convict!"  cried  the  host.  "Quick, 
follow  me!"  He  rushed  to  the  roof  followed  by  many 
of  his  guests.  My  father  and  Shackford  did  their  best 
to  calm  the  company.  There  was  much  noise  and  argu- 
ment in  the  neighborhood  of  the  chimney;  then  an  omi- 
nous silence.  Then  more  noise  and  more  protestation 
on  the  stairs;  then  a  crowd  entered  the  ballroom  hold- 
ing on  to  a  rough-looking  customer,  much  disordered, 
and  much  dazzled  by  the  illuminations  and  the  splendor 
of  attire. 

"Convict  be  hanged!"  cried  the  ventriloquist.  "I 
was  engaged  by  a  man  to  get  up  on  the  roof  and  answer 
questions  when  he  talked  up  the  chimney.  He  gave  me 
this  address.  I  came  here  and  tipped  the  servants  and 
they  let  me  up."  Here  he  caught  sight  of  my  father. 
"There  he  is!"  he  shouted.  "That's  the  man." 

"Call  the  police!"  said  the  host.  "That  gentleman 
is  Mr.  Sothern." 

"I  know  who  he  is!"  cried  the  man.  "He  paid  me 
to  come  here." 

"A  likely  story,"  said  the  host.     "Call  the  police!" 

My  father  approached  the  man.  "I  never  saw  you 
before  in  my  life,"  said  he,  and  stood  looking  his  con- 
federate in  the  eye.  "Come,  you  know  you  are  mis- 
taken, don't  you?"  and  he  began  to  make  passes  at  the 
chimney  man — actually,  he  merely  meant  to  confuse  and 
combat  the  distressed  and  disarranged  fellow.  Much 
to  his  own  amazement  and  that  of  the  lookers-on,  the 
man  glued  his  eyes  on  him  and  seemed  fascinated. 


THE  EMPTY  CHAIR  355 

"Now,"  said  my  father,  "go  slowly  down  the  stairs; 
when  you  get  to  the  bottom  say,  'High  cockalorum,' 
then  open  the  door  and  walk  directly  to  the  police 
station." 

This  the  man  proceeded  to  do;  he  walked  down- 
stairs, said:  "High  cockalorum,"  and  passed  out  into 
the  night. 

My  father  was  convinced  he  had  mesmerized  the  man, 
but  what  really  happened  was:  Shackford,  who  was 
holding  him  behind,  had  muttered  in  his  ear:  "Do  what 
he  says,  there's  money  in  it." 

The  party  went  on,  much  excitement  prevailed  and 
the  evening  passed  away.  Next  day  the  confederate 
called  at  the  hotel,  was  properly  rewarded  and  comforted 
with  explanations. 

Another  story  that  Captain  Shackford  told  me  was  of 
an  old  farmer  and  his  wife,  each  of  them  about  seventy- 
five  years  of  age,  who  one  day  approached  my  father  in 
the  dining-room  of  his  hotel,  and  told  him  they  had 
driven  thirty  miles  into  the  city  to  see  the  play  of  "Our 
American  Cousin."  "We've  heard  tell  of  it  all  our  lives, 
it  seems  to  me,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  my  wife  and  I 
made  up  our  minds  to  try  and  see  it  before  we  die.  Now 
we  get  here  and  we  can't  get  a  seat  for  love  nor  money. 
We  drove  straight  in  my  wagon  to  the  theatre,  then  we 
came  here,  we  heard  you  were  in  the  house,  perhaps  you 
can  get  us  in  somewhere." 

"You  shall  come  to  the  theatre  with  me,"  said  my 
father.  "You  shall  stay  here  as  my  guests.  You  shall 
have  supper  with  me  and  mine  after  the  play  is  over." 

He  made  those  two  ancient  farmers  sit  down  and  eat 
their  dinner  then  and  there.  He  drove  them  over  to  the 
theatre  with  him.  He  interrogated  the  box-office,  only 


356  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

to  find  every  seat  in  the  house  was  sold,  and  that  even 
the  orchestra  was  placed  under  the  stage,  and  their 
places  given  up  to  the  audience.  Two  chairs  were  placed 
in  the  prompter's  entrance,  and  these  two  old  rustics 
were  ensconced  therein.  Their  excitement,  their  de- 
light at  the  unfamiliar  surroundings,  was  childish  and 
even  pathetic.  My  father  kept  them  busy  with  atten- 
tions and  anecdotes,  and  introduced  them  to  his  com- 
pany and  to  all  the  mysteries  of  behind  the  scenes. 
Their  old  faces  became  flushed,  their  old  eyes  became 
bright  with  the  novelty  and  the  excitement.  At  length 
up  went  the  curtain  and  shortly  on  came  Lord  Dun- 
dreary. Not  all  the  plaudits  of  that  great  audience 
gratified  my  father  so  much  as  the  joy  of  those  two  old 
people.  Their  rustic  ejaculations,  "For  the  land's  sake !" 
"Darn  that  critter!"  "Well,  I'll  be  darned!"  and  the 
like,  accompanied  all  the  dialogue.  My  father  prac- 
tically played  to  them  the  whole  evening.  Their  eyes 
grew  larger  and  larger  with  the  wonder  of  the  experi- 
ence. The  pretty  ladies  of  the  company  made  much  of 
them,  and  when  all  was  over  they  were  driven  home 
bubbling  with  excitement,  quoting  lines  from  the  play, 
and  "darning"  away  until  they  reached  the  dining-room 
of  the  hotel.  There,  as  was  customary,  my  father 
supped  with  all  those  members  of  his  company  who 
might  be  living  in  the  house.  This  night  the  old  farmer 
and  his  ancient  spouse  were  made  the  guests  of  honor. 
Their  health  was  drunk,  speeches  were  made,  fun  was 
fast  and  furious,  and  at  last  two  very  happy,  astonished, 
and  bewildered  old  persons  were  conducted  by  an  af- 
fectionate crowd  to  their  bed-chamber. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  nothing  gave  my  father  more 
anxiety  or  caused  him  more  nervous  worry  than  to  have 


THE  EMPTY  CHAIR  357 

anybody  sit  or  stand  in  an  entrance  behind  the  scenes. 
He  has  made  me  get  out  from  such  a  position  once  or 
twice,  and  never  would  allow  any  one  to  stand  where  he 
might  see  them.  He  did  not  want  his  attention  dis- 
tracted; therefore,  he  must  have  permitted  himself 
some  considerable  anxiety  and  inconvenience  by  enter- 
taining these  old  people  as  he  did. 


XXXVIII 
"THE  BEAUTIFUL  ADVENTURE" 

"WHY  fear  death  ?  Death  is  only  a  beautiful  adven- 
ture." 

Thus  spoke  Charles  Frohman  as  he  stood  with  three 
other  passengers,  his  arms  locked  in  theirs,  upon  the 
slanting  deck  of  the  Lusitania  as  she  sank  off  the  coast 
of  Ireland.  At  2.30  p.  M.,  on  May  7,  1915,  the  vessel 
was  torpedoed  by  a  German  submarine.  Mr.  Frohman 
could  have  had  no  hope  of  escape.  He  was  probably 
wounded  by  the  explosion  and  one  of  his  legs  was  per- 
manently disabled  from  illness.  He  could  not  walk 
without  the  help  of  a  cane. 

At  such  a  crisis  a  man's  soul  speaks,  and  Charles 
Frohman's  words  illuminate  his  life  and  shed  a  radiance 
upon  his  death.  God  grant  we  may  greet  the  inevitable 
hour  in  such  wise  when  it  shall  strike  for  us!  A  man 
who  can  speak  thus  at  such  a  moment  can  need  no  other 
epitaph. 

I  had  not  come  in  contact  with  Mr.  Frohman  for 
some  years,  although  we  would  exchange  a  greeting 
now  and  then  at  Christmas  or  New  Year's  Day;  but  on 
February  22,  1915,  I  received  this  letter  from  him: 

MY  DEAR  EDDIE: 

I  am  writing  you  a  confidential  little  letter  because 
I  don't  want  it  known  what  play  Belasco  and  myself 
propose  producing  here  in  the  Spring,  but  I  know  I  can 
tell  you,  and  that  is  "A  Celebrated  Case."  We  were 
both  wondering,  Belasco  and  myself,  whether  we  could 

358 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  ADVENTURE"        359 

get  you  to  come  back  to  the  New  York  stage  this  Spring 
to  play  the  big  part  in  this  play  and  to  be  our  leading 
star  for  the  occasion.  It  would  be  fine  for  us  and  a  fine 
thing  for  the  audiences  to  have  you  in  this  part,  I  am 
sure.  I  hope  you  will  both  talk  it  over  and,  if  there  is 
the  smallest  chance,  if  you  don't  want  to  come  to  town 
I  will  come  up  and  see  you.  At  any  rate  I  want  you  to 
know  how  eager  we  both  are  to  have  you  in  case  we  can 
get  you.  It  was  a  great  pleasure  for  me  to  receive  the 
New  Year's  telegram  from  you  both.  I  am  happy  that 
you  thought  of  me.  Give  my  best  wishes  to  Julia  and 
accept  also  the  same  for  yourself. 

Very  truly  yours, 

CHARLES  FROHMAN. 

On  the  24th  of  February  I  called  on  Mr.  Frohman  at 
the  Empire  Theatre,  to  thank  him  for  his  offer,  which 
I  was  unable  to  accept.  I  had  not  seen  him  since  his 
illness,  and  my  wife  and  I  were  distressed  to  see  that  he 
could  not  walk  without  a  stick,  and  that  one  of  his  legs 
was  stiff  at  the  knee.  However,  he  made  light  of  his 
ailment.  He  was  enthusiastic,  as  ever,  about  his  many 
plans.  He  stood  up  and  acted  vehemently  the  various 
parts  in  a  play  the  plot  of  which  was  his  own  invention. 
He  was  in  great  good  humor  as  he  told  of  the  proposed 
production  of  "A  Celebrated  Case"  in  which  he  had 
Wanted  me  to  play. 

Mrs.  Sothern  told  him  that  she  had  decided  to  retire 
from  the  stage. 

"But  you  will  give  some  farewell  performance!"  he 
cried. 

"No,"  said  she.    "I  am  tired.    I  have  done  enough." 

"But  you  must  say  farewell!" 

"No.    I  have  said  it." 

"You  will  never  act  again  ?" 


360  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"No.    Never!" 

He  became  very  solemn  and  was  silent  a  moment. 
"Strange,"  said  he,  "you  don't  want  to." 

He  couldn't  understand  it.  That  there  could  be  any- 
thing else  in  life  but  work  seemed  incredible.  We  have 
heard  from  those  who  were  present  how  he  conducted 
his  rehearsals  from  a  stretcher  while  he  was  ill,  with 
what  indomitable  courage  he  persisted  in  his  labors. 

"Well,"  said  he,  as  we  were  going  away,  "when  you 
have  your  home  in  England  you  will  ask  me  to  come  and 
stay  with  you.  I'll  bring  Barrie,  and  we  will  stay  for  a 
week,  a  month.  You'll  love  Barrie." 

We  were  quite  sure  we  would. 

"Good-by,"  said  Charles,  "and  thank  you  again  for 
coming  to  see  me." 

He  seemed  unusually,  almost  pathetically,  affected 
by  our  visit.  We  both  remarked  upon  and  wondered  at 
it.  I  believe  in  premonitions  myself,  and  I  have  thought 
since  that  his  mood  sprang  from  some  cause  beyond  our 
ken. 

Mrs.  Sothern  and  I  were  both  touched  by  his  manner, 
and  frequently  during  the  next  few  days  we  said  how 
glad  we  were  that  we  had  paid  him  this  visit. 

We  shortly  returned  to  Washington  where  we  had 
passed  the  winter,  and  on  April  the  9th  we  received  this 
letter: 

DEAR  JULIA  MARLOWE  AND  EDDIE  SOTHERN: 

I  know  you  will  forgive  my  writing  you  through  the 
typewriter.  I  am  compelled  to  do  so  because  I  cannot 
express  my  feeling  for  you  with  my  hand  which  trembles 
so  much  when  I  think  of  you.  I  want  to  thank  you  about 
the  Osteopath,  and  I  have  started  in  on  your  advice  at 
once.  I  have  tried  everything  else.  I  wonder  why  you 


From  a  photograph  copyright  by  Underwood  if  Underwood 

CHARLES    FROHMAN 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  ADVENTURE"        361 

both  don't  sail  with  me  (about  the  first  of  May  I  want  to 
go).  It  would  be  a  fine  thing.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
when  you  consider  the  stars  I  have  managed,  a  mere 
submarine  makes  me  laugh.  Most  affectionate  regards 
to  you  both. 

Yours  truly, 

C.  F. 

On  May  the  I5th  a  letter  arrived  from  London,  written 
to  my  wife  by  a  mutual  friend.  It  said: 

"  Just  a  line  to  beg  you  not  to  come  on  the  Lusitania. 
The  Germans  are  bent  on  sinking  her.  They  nearly 
did  in  the  dock  at  Liverpool  a  few  weeks  ago.  This  is 
not  generally  known,  but  a  shipping  man  told  me." 

Alas !  even  those  who  had  been  warned  did  not  believe 
that  human  nature  was  capable  of  such  a  deed ! 

Hanging  in  Charles  Frohman's  office  was  a  placard 
which  bore  this  verse: 

"Blessed  is  the  man  diligent  in  business.  He  shall 
stand  before  kings.  He  shall  not  stand  before  mean 
men." 

Stand  before  kings  he  assuredly  did,  for  his  London 
ventures  brought  him  "command  performances"  from 
Queen  Victoria  and  from  King  Edward.  As  for  mean 
men,  I  fancy  they  would  not  remain  long  in  Charles 
Frohman's  presence,  for  he  himself  was  the  soul  of  gen- 
erosity. Indeed,  he  was  quite  princely  and  large  about 
most  things  that  he  did. 

My  earliest  contact  with  him  began  about  1883,  when 
I  landed  in  New  York  to  seek  my  fortune.  When  Daniel 
Frohman  had  accepted  the  play  of  "Trade"  (afterward 
called  "The  Highest  Bidder")  for  production  at  the 


362  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

old  Lyceum  Theatre,  he  sent  me  to  Charles  Frohman 
with  whom  I  made  the  contract  for  the  play  on  behalf 
of  my  brother  Sam,  whose  property  it  was.  Also  I  con- 
tracted with  Charles  for  my  own  services.  Charles  sub- 
sequently transferred  these  contracts  to  Daniel  Froh- 
man. 

My  brother  and  I  found  Charles  in  the  Coleman 
House  on  Broadway  and  28th  Street,  where  he  lived 
at  the  time — the  summer  of  1885.  I  had  met  him  fre- 
quently before,  for,  from  the  moment  I  landed,  no  man- 
ager escaped  my  importunities.  I  was  on  their  trails 
all  the  time  seeking  engagements.  Charles  had  ever 
greeted  me  with  glad  good  humor,  but  he  himself  was  on 
the  skirt  of  prosperity  at  that  period,  coquetting  with 
fortune,  but  not  quite  accepted  as  a  suitor.  Shortly 
he  was  to  win  her  favor  with  Bronson  Howard's  "Shenan- 
doah."  But  on  this  day  when  we  arranged  for  "The 
Highest  Bidder,"  I  fancy  Charles  wanted  Sam  and  me, 
and  our  little  play,  as  much  as  we  wanted  him.  The 
success  of  this  comedy  aided  the  fortunes  of  Daniel  and 
Charles  Frohman  and  myself. 

Charles  had  no  office  at  this  time.  He  occupied  a 
desk  in  a  room  with  several  other  men,  and  here  on  this 
hot  summer  day  in  his  shirt-sleeves  he  drew  up  the  con- 
tract for  our  little  drama  which  was  to  waft  us  all  on  the 
way  to  good  fortune.  We  all  signed  it  then  and  there. 
My  brother  was  to  receive  a  hundred  dollars  a  week  for 
the  play,  and  I  was  to  receive  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  a  week  for  playing  the  leading  part.  Later,  on  the 
success  of  the  play,  another  contract  was  made  for  my 
own  services. 

In  our  hurryings  to  and  fro  I  would  often  meet  Charles 
Frohman — always  eager,  always  smiling,  always  kind, 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  ADVENTURE"        363 

humorous,  gentle,  and  lovable.  Once  in  Boston  he  asked 
me  to  witness  a  dress  rehearsal  of  "Shenandoah"  just 
previous  to  its  production  at  the  Boston  Museum.  In 
the  streets  of  various  cities,  in  restaurants,  all  over  the 
country  we  would  encounter  in  our  wanderings.  Then 
one  day  he  came  running  up  the  stairs  of  Daniel  Froh- 
man's  office  on  Fourth  Avenue.  I  was  going  down- 
stairs with  my  new  play  under  my  arm. 

"I  am  to  play  'The  Dancing  Girl,'"  said  I.  "I  am 
rather  nervous  about  it.  I  have  never  played  such  a 
serious  part  before.  What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

"What  will  you  take  for  your  season?"  said  Charles. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  I. 

"What  will  you  take  in  cash — now — for  your  season  ?" 
said  he. 

"What  will  you  give  me?"  said  I. 

"I'll  give  you  forty  thousand  dollars  for  your  share," 
said  Frohman  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"No,"  said  I.  "If  you  think  I'll  make  that  I  may 
make  more,"  so  I  did  not  take  it.  But  this  illustrates 
Charles  Frohman's  spirit  of  adventure. 

It  was  many  years  later,  when  Charles  Dillingham 
had  approached  me  with  a  view  to  my  joining  forces 
with  Miss  Julia  Marlowe,  that  I  went  to  see  Charles 
Frohman  about  an  entirely  different  matter.  My  busi- 
ness concluded,  I  rose  to  go. 

"What  do  you  think,"  said  I,  "about  this  plan  of  my 
playing  with  Miss  Marlowe  ?" 

"Fine!"  said  he.  "What  do  you  expect  to  make  out 
of  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  I.  "About  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  on  the  season." 

"I'll  give  it  you  if  you'll  let  me  manage  you,"  said 


364  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

Charles.  "I'll  give  you  a  hundred  thousand  a  year 
each." 

"For  three  years?"  said  I. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "for  three  years.    Will  you  take  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

"All  right,"  said  he.  "I'll  send  you  a  contract  down 
to  the  Garden  Theatre  to-night."  And  sure  enough 
Dan  Frohman  had  the  contract  there  that  very  evening, 
and  I  signed  it  in  between  acts  of  "If  I  Were  King," 
which  I  was  playing  at  the  time. 

Miss  Marlowe  was  abroad,  but  was  cabled  to,  and 
wired  her  consent.  The  thing  was  done.  Such  rapid 
action  was  truly  Napoleonic  and  bore  out  Charles's 
saying:  "I  would  rather  be  rightly  wrong  than  wrongly 
right,"  a  remark  which  requires  some  figuring  out,  but 
in  this  instance  it  meant:  "If  this  Shakespearian  com- 
bination is  going  to  be  a  good  thing  for  the  theatre  I 
want  to  be  in  it  and  help  it  along." 

Charles  did  not  entirely  approve  of  my  desire  to  play 
the  Shakespeare  roles,  but  since  that  was  my  determina- 
tion he  was  eager  to  support  the  venture.  He  was  hu- 
morously candid  in  his  criticism,  and  told  me  frankly 
enough  that  he  did  not  like  my  performance  of  Malvolio, 
and  that  my  conception  of  Shylock  was  all  wrong.  In 
a  general  way  he  preferred  me  in  romantic  parts,  and 
once,  as  he  sat  at  a  dress  rehearsal,  he  sighed  and  said 
to  Miss  Marlowe:  "Why  does  he  want  to  play  Shylock? 
Oh,  for  the  Eddie  Sothern  of  twenty  years  ago!" 

Under  his  direction  we  produced  six  Shakespeare 
plays — "Hamlet,"  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  "The  Taming 
of  the  Shrew,"  "Twelfth  Night,"  "The  Merchant  of 
Venice,"  and  "Much  Ado  About  Nothing."  These 
productions  were  all  new  and  elaborate.  I  had  a  free 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  ADVENTURE"        365 

hand  practically  in  the  matter  of  scenery,  costumes,  and 
accessories. 

The  venture  was  expensive,  and,  although  the  receipts 
were  great,  Mr.  Frohman  felt  at  the  end  of  the  second  year 
that  he  did  not  want  to  make  three  more  productions, 
as  we  had  agreed  should  be  done.  We,  however,  wished  to 
proceed  with  our  original  scheme  of  three  plays  a  year, 
also  we  wished  to  take  our  productions  to  London. 
Charles  could  not  sympathize  with  our  plans,  so  I  asked 
him  if  he  would  like  to  give  up  the  contract  for  this 
third  year. 

He  said  "Yes";  so  we  handed  him  back  the  agree- 
ment, and  undertook  the  enterprise  ourselves.  He  wished 
us  Godspeed  and  we  went  our  way. 

When  Charles  and  Daniel  Frohman  entered  upon  their 
careers  as  managers  the  business  of  the  theatre  was  fre- 
quently conducted  on  a  haphazard  plan.  If  a  venture 
succeeded,  all  went  well.  In  the  event  of  failure,  the 
actors  very  often  suffered  loss.  Any  irresponsible  person 
could  take  out  a  play  and  obtain  time  in  various  thea- 
tres. I  have  myself  been  a  victim  of  such  adventures. 
Owing  greatly  to  the  Frohman  faculty  for  organization 
and  fair  dealing,  theatrical  affairs  were  soon  conducted 
on  a  sounder  business  basis.  The  Frohman  word  was 
as  good  as  a  bond  to  any  man.  This  was  Charles  Froh- 
man's  especial  pride. 

It  has  been  the  custom  in  certain  quarters  to  exclaim 
against  Mr.  Frohman's  "commercialism"  in  the  con- 
duct of  his  business.  This  abuse  is  quite  nonsensical 
and  unfair.  The  amusement-loving  public  demands 
many  kinds  of  entertainment.  It  can  be  said  of  Charles 
Frohman  that  he  never  on  any  single  occasion  offered 
anything  below  the  standard  of  cleanliness  and  good 


366  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

manners,  and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  he  provided  his 
patrons  with  the  very  best  plays  by  the  very  best  dram- 
atists of  his  time,  interpreted  by  the  most  capable  actors 
procurable.  The  salaries  of  players  and  the  royalties 
of  playwrights  increased  by  leaps  and  bounds  under  his 
generous  direction,  for  he  was  ever  ready  to  pay  for  the 
best.  Masterpieces  are  not  written  frequently;  if  Mr. 
Frohman  overlooked  any  in  his  generation  they  are  yet 
to  be  discovered. 

A  recent  play  contest  offering  a  prize  of  ten  thousand 
dollars  succeeded  no  better  than  previous  occasions  of 
the  same  nature  in  unearthing  neglected  genius.  Nor 
did  the  generous  experiment  of  the  New  Theatre,  nor 
any  of  the  several  excursions  of  the  dissatisfied  and  in- 
spired display  one  actor  or  play  superior  to  those  pro- 
duced by  the  commercial  managers. 

We  are  informed  that  the  theatre  has  great  power 
along  lines  of  instruction  and  reform,  but  it  is  observed 
that  philanthropists  do  not  endow  playhouses. 

Sir  Henry  Irving's  oft-quoted  axiom  that  the  theatre 
"must  succeed  as  a  business  or  it  will  fail  as  an  art" 
is  no  more  than  plain  common  sense,  and  the  frothing 
and  foaming  of  all  the  ink-pots  in  the  world  will  not 
make  it  otherwise. 

When  Haroun-al-Raschid  desired  to  learn  how  he 
should  govern  his  kingdom,  he  went  disguised  into  the 
taverns,  and  there  the  toss-pots  instructed  him;  for  the 
failures  in  life  can  always  advise  the  successful  ones  as 
to  the  conduct  of  their  affairs. 

Charles  Frohman,  no  doubt,  lost  much  wisdom  by 
not  hearkening  to  the  wine-bibbers.  They,  on  the  other 
hand,  would  have  had  lighter  hearts,  heavier  pockets, 
and  happier  heads  had  they  denounced  him  less  and 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  ADVENTURE"        367 

spent  the  time  thus  gained  in  emulation  of  his  honesty, 
good  humor,  kindliness,  industry,  and  courage. 

The  sincere  tributes  at  his  funeral  paid  homage  to  a 
public  benefactor.  As  I  sat  and  saw  and  listened  I  could 
but  feel  uplifted  in  my  sorrow;  for  here,  surely,  greater 
than  Death  victorious  was  Life  triumphant,  a  purpose 
vindicated,  a  calling  honored,  an  example  declared. 

It  was  no  idle  statement  made  by  Rabbi  Silverman 
that  Charles  Frohman's  last  words  will  echo  through 
the  days  and  nights  for  "those  who  go  down  to  the  sea 
in  ships  and  occupy  their  business  in  great  waters." 
They  will  strengthen  many  a  doubtful  wayfarer.  They 
are  the  greeting  for  our  journey's  end.  "Then  they 
are  glad  because  they  are  at  rest,  and  so  He  bringeth 
them  to  the  haven  where  they  would  be." 


XXXIX 
SANCTUARY 

EACH  man  has  in  the  recesses  of  his  mind  some  group 
of  associations — some  collection  of  memories — to  which, 
as  to  a  mountain  fastness,  he  can  retreat  in  moments  of 
sorrow  or  despair;  when  by  the  scourge  of  chance,  or 
by  the  lash  of  his  own  folly,  he  has  been  laid  low,  thither 
may  he  flee  for  sanctuary.  Far,  far  away  to  some  re- 
membrance of  home  and  childhood,  or  maybe  to  the 
door  of  some  dear  friend  where,  in  the  spirit,  he  may 
cling,  as  did  those  unhappy  ones  of  the  olden  time  who, 
fugitives  from  hatred  or  the  law,  found  refuge  within 
the  precincts  of  the  church.  Here,  for  a  while,  will  he 
bid  defiance  to  ill  fortune,  arise  from  his  defeat  and 
gird  his  loins  anew. 

It  has  been  my  happy  fate  to  possess  such  havens. 
To  them  in  evil  days  I  could  sail  away  with  the  speed 
of  thought  and  find  my  comfort  with  the  morrow's  sun. 

People  who  go  fishing  may  catch  more  than  fish. 
They  may  land  a  sweetheart  or  a  friend.  Happy  are 
the  entanglements  begot  of  fishing-tackle. 

"Have  we  any  onions  on  board?"  said  Mr.  William 
J.  Florence  as  we  were  about  to  start  from  Boston  on  a 
fishing  trip  to  the  Rangeley  Lakes  in  Maine.  "I  must 
have  plenty  of  onions,"  declared  Mr.  Florence. 

Said  my  father:  "Billy  is  so  fond  of  onions  that  he 
hopes  this  ship  will  spring  a  leek." 

"Why  stand  ye  here  idle  all  the  day  ?"  said  my  father 

to  Mr.  Ben  Wolf,  the  writer,  and  to  Mrs.  Harris,  who 

368 


SANCTUARY  369 

was  bidding  good-by  to  Doctor  F.  A.  Harris.  "Why 
stand  ye  here  idle  all  the  day  ?" 

Said  Doctor  F.  A.  Harris:  "We  are  the  scribes  and 
the  F-Harrises." 

Here  Mr.  Henry  M.  Rogers,  of  Boston,  approached, 
clad  for  the  occasion  after  the  fashion  of  whalers  in  the 
North  Sea. 

"I  wonder,"  said  my  father,  "where  Harry  got  his 
make-up  for  'The  Flying  Dutchman/  " 

Said  Mr.  Rogers:  "When  Rogers  was  an  actor  in 
Rome." 

Now  people  who  are  capable  of  such  jokes  as  these 
are  not  easily  daunted,  and  it  will  be  readily  believed 
that  neither  fisherman's  luck  nor  any  other  luck  could 
affect  them  to  sadness. 

That  was  a  great  excursion  and  from  it  grew  a  sheaf 
of  those  memories  whereof  I  have  spoken — a  safe  retreat 
in  time  of  stress  and  trouble. 

"My  boy  wants  to  go  on  the  stage,"  said  my  father 
one  day  to  his  fellow  angler,  Mr.  Rogers,  "and  I  would 
give  anything  to  prevent  it.  He  will  fail  and  he  will 
be  unhappy." 

"Forbid  him  to  do  it,  then,"  said  Mr.  Rogers. 

"No,"  said  my  father,  "I  can't  do  that.  I  don't  want 
him  to  curse  me  when  I  am  dead." 

I  suppose  my  father  thought  that  having  failed  as  a 
tinker  or  a  tailor,  I  would  have  looked  back  to  the  imag- 
inary glories  of  my  stage  career  and  would  have  blamed 
him. 

This  was  in  1875. 

I  remember  reading  a  story  of  an  acrobat  who  noticed 
that  a  certain  man  constantly  attended  his  exhibitions. 
Wherever  he  travelled,  through  all  the  capitals  of  Eu- 


370  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

rope,  East  and  West,  India,  China,  Saint  Petersburg,  the 
same  eyes  watched  him.  He  became  fascinated,  then 
terrified.  He  thought:  "Some  day  I  shall  fall;  that 
man  will  see  me  die." 

At  length  he  met  the  stranger.  "Why  do  you  follow 
me  all  over  the  world  ?"  said  he. 

The  man  smiled.  "One  day  you  will  be  killed,"  he 
answered.  "I  want  to  see  it  happen." 

For  over  thirty  years,  every  time  I  have  played  a  new 
part,  if  not  on  the  first  night,  very  shortly  after  it,  I 
have  seen  an  eager,  kindly  face  observing  every  move- 
ment and  have  known  that  the  owner  craved  for  me 
victory. 

"Work  on,"  he  would  seem  to  say.  "It  will  happen 
one  day  and  I  want  to  be  there." 

First  at  the  Boston  Museum,  then  in  New  York, 
then  in  many  cities,  year  by  year  as  I  crept  along,  the 
spoken  and  the  written  word,  the  constant  presence, 
urged  me  on. 

Man  does  not  live  by  bread  alone,  and  of  all  words 
that  proceed  from  the  mouth  of  God  does  not  "friend- 
ship" contribute  most  to  the  spiritual  weal?  Juliet 
cries  aloud:  "Lord!  lover!  husband!  friend!"  rising 
to  the  superlative  need  of  her  despair.  Without  the 
sympathy  of  friendship  sorrow  is  multiplied  and  vic- 
tory is  vain. 

Just  before  the  graveyard  scene  in  "Hamlet,"  a  tall, 
white-haired  figure  crosses  the  stage,  and  stands  with 
folded  arms  contemplating  the  low  comedian  as  he  ar- 
ranges the  several  properties  for  his  scene — the  skulls, 
the  bones,  the  pickaxe,  and  the  spade.  The  warning  is 
given,  and  the  visitor  moves  to  the  wings  and  bends  to 
pass  under  the  stand  of  a  calcium-light.  As  he  lifts  his 


George  Holland      William  J.  Florence      E.  A.  Sothern      Henry  M.  Rogers      E.  H.  Sothern 

EDWARD    A.    SOTHKRN    AND    PARTY    ON    A    FISHING    TRIP, 
RANGELEY    LAKES,    MAINE 


SANCTUARY  371 

head  the  lightman  shifts  his  light,  and  the  venerable 
dome  comes  violently  in  contact  with  part  of  the  iron 
stand.  With  an  exclamation  he  clasps  his  hands  to  his 
skull. 

The  comedian  has  observed  the  catastrophe. 

"Why  may  not  that  be  the  skull  of  a  lawyer?"  says 
he. 

To  which  the  stricken  one  responds  readily:  "Why 
does  he  suffer  this  rude  knave  now  to  knock  him  about 
the  sconce  with  a  dirty  limelight  and  will  not  tell  him 
of  his  action  of  battery?" 

Again  it  is  Christmas  night,  when  we  of  the  theatre 
greet  each  other  on  the  stage  after  the  play.  A  great 
feast  is  spread,  and  tables  make  three  sides  of  a  square 
along  the  footlights  and  the  wings.  There  has  been  a 
Christmas  tree  and  a  minstrel  show  wherein  I  am  the 
blackfaced  middleman,  and  a  burlesque  of  the  season's 
happenings.  Now  arises  this  same  tall,  white-haired 
form,  and  in  a  gentle  talk  he  reviews  the  past  and  com- 
pliments the  present.  There  is  much  laughter  and  some 
tears.  The  middleman's  eyes  grow  dim.  In  how  many 
places  the  stage  door  has  opened  when  this  kindly,  courtly, 
eager  figure,  ever  gentle,  ever  green,  year  in,  year  out, 
has  passed  to  the  dressing-room  of  one  laboring  player 
to  bring  the  smile  of  sympathy  and  the  hand-clasp  of 
courage  ? 

"Success.  Yes,  we  must  beware  of  success,"  says 
my  friend.  For  has  he  not  seen  in  the  toss  of  my  head 
that  I  believe  I  have  achieved,  and  does  he  not  sigh  as 
he  contemplates  the  poverty  of  my  victory  ? 

Never  does  he  say,  "The  case  is  thus  or  so,"  or,  "You 
must  do  this  or  that";  but  "Do  you  think,  perhaps, 
there  is  reason  in  such  a  reading?"  or  "I  wonder  if  that 


372  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

scene  might  not  be  improved  by  such  considering,"  so 
that  my  poor  vanity  is  soothed  rather  than  pummelled 
into  the  true  path.  Or  he  will  sigh:  "She  should  have 
died  hereafter — she  should  have  died." 

"Yes,"  I  will  say  consciously,  "I  say  ' would,  don't 
I?" 

"Yes,"  he  will  reply,  "yes,  you  have  elected  to  say 
'would,'  and  no  doubt  you  have  good  reason  for  doing 
so.  She  should  have  died,  she  should.  That,  if  I  remember 
correctly,  is  the  text.  Your  amendment  may  be  an  im- 
provement. She  should  have  died,  she  should  have  died 
hereafter." 

I  go  home  with  this  line  humming  in  my  ear.  No 
one  has  contradicted  me,  nor  called  my  judgment  in 
question,  yet  the  next  night,  and  for  all  nights  to  come, 
I  say:  "She  should  have  died  hereafter." 

"Nay,  then,  let  the  devil  wear  black  'fore  /'//  have 
a  suit  of  sables,"  murmurs  my  old  friend.  "Meaning," 
says  he,  "before  he  will  wear  a  suit  of  sables,  of  course. 
Yes !  Yes,  of  course !  I  have  encountered  that  reading 
in  the  commentators,  plaguy  fellows  they  are;  before 
I'll  have  a  suit  of  sables." 

Then  will  he  read  the  line  as  its  stands  in  the  text: 
"Let  the  devil  wear  blacky  for  /'//  have  a  suit  of  sables. 
Sables,  I  believe,  were  the  extreme  of  finery  in  those 
times,"  says  he.  Then  with  a  gay  gesture  and  a  scoffing 
tone,  "for  /'//  have  a  suit  of  sables.  You  played  well 
to-night,"  says  he  at  parting. 

I  go  to  bed  and  to  sleep  muttering,  "for,"  "before," 
"for  /'//  have  a  suit  of  sables,"  and  forever  after  I  read 
the  line  as  it  should  be  read. 

"Socrates  was  a  wise  man,"  said  my  mentor  one  day. 
"Said  Socrates:  'I  went  to  one  who  had  the  reputation 


SANCTUARY  373 

of  wisdom.  When  I  began  to  talk  with  him  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  he  was  not  really  wise  although  he 
was  thought  wise  by  many,  and  wiser  still  by  himself, 
and  I  went  and  tried  to  explain  to  him  that  he  thought 
himself  wise  but  was  not  really  wise,  and  the  consequence 
was  that  he  hated  me,  so  I  left  him,  saying  to  myself, 
"I  am  better  off  than  he  is,  for  he  knows  nothing  and 
thinks  he  knows;  I  neither  know  nor  think  that  I 
know."'" 

"Touchstone  says  the  same  thing,"  I  remark: 

"'The  fool  thinks  himself  a  wise  man, 

But  the  wise  man  knows  himself  to  be  a  fool.' ' 

"Exactly,"  says  my  old  friend,  "and  if  we  only  rec- 
ognize one  another's  folly,  how  mutually  helpful  we  can 
be!  Now,"  says  he,  "I  shall  go  and  sit  in  front.  Booth's 
enunciation  was  exquisite,"  he  declares  as  he  picks  up 
his  hat,  and,  while  agreeing  with  him,  I  reflect  on  my 
own  manner  of  speech. 

"And  his  tenderness  to  Ophelia  !  How  much  more  true 
than  the  raging  of  Macready."  And  I  resolve  to  temper 
my  passion  in  that  scene. 

And  so,  for  thirty  years  and  more,  "I  have  not  lacked 
your  mild  reproof,  nor  golden  largess  of  your  praise." 
How  often  in  moments  of  doubt  and  discouragement  I 
have  fled  in  thought  to  that  door  which  ever  seems  to 
lie  in  green  pastures  and  by  quiet  waters,  changeless 
through  the  years,  a  steadfast  spot  in  an  unstable  world. 
There  have  I  sunk  upon  the  threshold  and  have  seized 
your  hand,  although  you  knew  it  not.  "Sanctuary!" 
I  have  cried,  and  the  phantoms  of  failure  and  distress 
have  fled. 


374  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"I   believe   in  some  former  existence.    I  was   myself 
connected  with  the  theatre,"  said  Mr.  Rogers. 
"When  was  that,  I  wonder?"  said  I. 
Said  he:   "When  Rogers  was  an  actor  in  Rome." 


XL 
I  TALK  TO  MYSELF 

"THE  child  is  father  to  the  man,"  said  I  to  myself 
as  I  contemplated  that  picture  of  "Me"  which  adorns 
this  volume.  "And  if  you  could  materialize,"  I  con- 
tinued, "you  would  no  doubt  get  down  from  your  perch 
and  demand  of  me,  your  offspring,  how  I  have  realized 
your  hopes  and  expectations;  to  what  extent,  and  why 
I  have  departed  from  your  ideals;  why  I  have  com- 
promised here  and  retreated  there,  and  generally  call 
upon  me  to  explain  why  I  am  what  I  am,  where  I  am, 
and  who  I  am." 

To  my  consternation,  the  large-headed,  chubby-legged 
image  climbed  down  from  the  chair,  emerged  from  the 
photograph,  fixed  his  goggle-eyes  upon  me  and  spoke: 

"I  have  been  longing  to  question  you,"  said  he.  "I 
never  thought  that  the  conditions  would  be  favorable. 
But  here  is  the  ist  of  April — Lord  Dundreary's  birth- 
day by  the  way — you  have  been  reading  about  the  sub- 
conscious mind;  I  have  been  standing  on  a  shelf  between 
'Alice  in  Wonderland'  and  the  'Bab  Ballads';  the  mo- 
ment is  propitious,  we  are  both  in  the  mood." 

This  was  not  the  vocabulary  of  "Me."  "Subcon- 
scious," "propitious."  "You  take  my  breath  away," 
said  I. 

"Very  likely,"  said  "Me."  "You  are  not  nearly  so 
sophisticated  as  I  had  hoped  you  would  be.  I  have  sat 
here  in  this  daguerreotype  for  some  fifty  years,  and  have 

37S 


376  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

marvelled  to  see  how  you  have  wasted  time  and  oppor- 
tunity. Since  I  was  photographed  I  have  been  obliged 
to  retain  this  shape  and  this  exceedingly  cramped  atti- 
tude, but  the  years  have  passed  over  me  notwithstand- 
ing. I  have  seen  and  observed;  one  has  eyes  even  if 
one  ir  a  daguerreotype.  I  have  grown  wise  in  my  frame; 
while  it  is  you,  who  have  roved  the  world  over,  who  are 
still  a  child.  What  have  you  done  with  life?" 

I  felt  like  telling  "Me"  I  would  spank  him  if  he  talked 
to  his  elders  like  that;  but  I  reflected  that  he  was  my 
parent,  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  I  really  could  not  raise 
my  hand  against  him.  "Nonsense!"  said  I,  "you  are 
an  infant." 

"I  am  as  old  as  you  are,"  said  "Me."  "In  fact,  I 
was  you  before  you  were  born." 

"You   are   remarkably   well-preserved,"   I   muttered. 

"I  am  a  daguerreotype,"  said  "Me."  "It  is  true  that 
externally  I  have  stood,  or  rather  sat,  still  all  these  years, 
but  my  mind  has  not  been  idle.  I  have  kept  track  of 
you  to  some  extent.  Now  and  then  I  have  been  packed 
away  between  books  of  theatrical  reviews,  and  since  I 
am  printed  on  an  extremely  sensitive  plate  I  have  ab- 
sorbed the  opinions,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  con- 
cerning your  various  performances.  From  what  I  have 
absorbed,  I  should  think  you  were  rather  a  wooden 
actor." 

I  really  thought  I  had  myself  well  in  hand  by  this 
time,  and  had  recovered  from  my  first  astonishment, 
but  I  flushed  angrily.  "I  was  not  wooden!"  said  I, 
indignant.  "A  writer  in  Kalamazoo  declared  that  I " 

"There,  there,"  said  "Me,"  "don't  become  emotional. 
You  know  I  never  was  inclined  toward  public  life;  I 
was  quite  averse  to  the  stage;  constitutionally  I  hated 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  377 

crowds.  How  did  you  come  to  enter  upon  a  career  so 
entirely  distasteful  to  you  when  you  were  'Me' •?" 

"Oh,  come,"  said  I,  rather  sulkily,  "you  used  to  play 
a  good  deal  as  a  child.  I  remember  quite  well  how  ab- 
sorbed you  were  in  your  role  of  hermit,  or  pirate,  or 
red  Indian." 

"That,"  said  "Me,"  tossing  his  unreasonable  head, 
"is  the  natural  play-instinct  of  the  infant  or  the  animal; 
but  for  a  grown-up  man  to  pursue  such  pastimes  seems 
to  me  grotesque.  Nature  has  provided  the  play-instinct 
in  order  to  exercise  the  growing  and  immature  bodily 
and  mental  faculties  of  the " 

"Where  on  earth  did  you  hear  all  this?"  cried  I  in 
amazement. 

"I  stood  for  years  on  a  shelf  between  Darwin's  'Origin 
of  Species'  and  'The  Descent  of  Man/"  said  "Me." 

"Look  here,"  said  I.  "You  come  of  a  theatrical 
family,  and  were  surrounded  by  the  influences  of  the 
theatre  from  childhood.  Your  friend  Darwin  will  tell 
you  the  power  of  environment.  It  was  natural,  almost 
inevitable,  that  this  play-instinct  you  talk  about  should 
lead  you  on  to  the  stage." 

"Lead  you,  you  mean,"  said  "Me."  "You  forget 
that  I  was  incarcerated  in  this  frame  at  the  age  of  four. 
I  was  not  old  enough  to  be  aware  that  such  an  institu- 
tion as  the  theatre  existed.  Since  that  time  I  have  led 
a  most  secluded  existence,  sometimes  packed  away  in 
trunks  with  books,  sometimes  on  shelves,  sometimes  in 
drawers.  Having  been  photographed  on  a  silver  plate, 
I  have  reflected  a  great  deal,  everything  in  fact.  You 
can  see  your  face  in  me  at  this  moment.  I  repeat,  this 
daguerreotype  process  has  permanently  arrested  my 
physical  development,  but  has  preserved  my  reflections 


378  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

forever  and  ever.  Now,  really,  you  owe  me  some  explana- 
tions. What  induced  you  to  become  a  rogue  and  a  vaga- 
bond?" 

"Stop!"  said  I  angrily.  "That  is  a  vulgar  error. 
Where  did  you  get  that?" 

"It  is  generally  known,"  said  "Me." 

"And,  like  many  things  generally  known,  it  is  partic- 
ularly wrong.  If  you  had  ever  been  placed  near  Doran's 
'Their  Majesties'  servants,'  you  would  know  that  'the 
celebrated  statute  of  1572  does  not  declare  players  to 
be  rogues  and  vagabonds.  It  simply  threatens  to  treat 
as  such  all  acting  companies  who  presume  to  set  up  their 
stage  without  the  license  of  two  justices  of  the  peace  at 
least/  Then,  as  to-day,  any  man  high  or  low  who  trans- 
gressed the  law  would  become  amenable  to  the  law,  and 
would  be  treated  as  a  rogue  and  a  vagabond.  Players 
in  1572  were  'Her  Majesty's  servants,'  members  of  the 
royal  household,  or  of  the  household  of  some  great  noble. 
They  were  persons  of  distinction  and  consideration. 
'Ich  dien' — I  serve — is  the  motto  of  the  prince  himself. 
I  tell  you " 

"You  are  getting  excited,"  said  "Me." 

"I  am  excited,"  I  replied.  "It  annoys  me  to  hear 
this  rogue  and  vagabond  talk.  Players  were  never 
classed  as  rogues  and  vagabonds.  They  were  licensed 
in  1572,  as  they  are  licensed  now  in  1915,  by  the  lord 
chamberlain.  A  penalty  of  ten  pounds  is  still  inflicted 
on  any  actor  concerned  in  an  unlicensed  theatre.  You 
must  have  a  license  to  practise  as  a  physician,  a  clergy- 
man, a  soldier,  a  sailor " 

"I  accept  your  apology,"  said  "Me." 

"I  don't  apologize!"  cried  I.  "I  am  instructing  you, 
you  have  been  so  long  on  the  shelf " 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  379 

"Oh,  don't  throw  the  shelf  in  my  face,"  said  "Me." 

I  nursed  my  indignation  in  silence  while  the  chubby- 
legged  sage  nodded  at  me  wisely. 

"Look  here,"  said  "Me."  "I  have  been  standing  here 
against  several  volumes  of  Elizabethan  dramatists,  and 
the  plays  of  Congreve  and  Wycherley.  I  think  they 
are  positively  indecent,  vulgar,  common;  I  don't  see 
how  you " 

"Really,"  said  I,  "just  to  give  your  sense  of  decency 
a  real  shock,  I  will  place  you  shortly  against  the  *  Table 
Talk*  of  Martin  Luther.  Those  were  candid  times — a 
spade  was  called  a  spade.  The  stage,  as  literature  gen- 
erally, reflects  its  generation.  In  a  pure  generation  the 
stage  is  pure." 

"Indeed!"  said  "Me."    "What  play-actor  wrote: 

Alas !  'tis  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view; 
Gored  mine  own  thoughts;  sold  cheap  what  was  most 
dear. 

Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand  ?" 

I  cast  at  "Me"  Raleigh's  "Essay  on  Style,"  and 
nearly  knocked  him  off  his  chair. 

"Read  there!"  I  cried.  "Modern  vulgarity  is  wont 
to  interpret  these  lines  (of  Shakespeare)  as  a  protest 
against  the  contempt  wherewith  Elizabethan  society  re- 
garded the  profession  of  playwright  and  actor  .  .  .  be- 
cause he  is  not  put  on  the  same  level  of  social  estimation 
with  a  brocaded  gull,  or  a  prosperous  goldsmith  of  the 
Cheap.  No  !  It  is  a  cry  from  the  depth  of  his  nature  for 
forgiveness  because  he  has  sacrificed  a  little  at  the  altar 


38o  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

of  popularity.'  What  his  'nature'  works  in,  and  re- 
volts against,  is  the  judgment  of  the  rabble,  not  his  art, 
not  his  brother  poets  nor  brother  players.  To  whom 
did  he  sell  'cheap  what  was  most  dear'  ?  Why  to  the 
brocaded  gull  and  the  prosperous  goldsmith.  It  was 
for  them  he  made  himself  'a  motley  to  the  view.'  The 
brand  his  name  received  was  the  self-reproach  of  the 
poet  who  had  as  manager  of  a  theatre  made  a  conces- 
sion to  popular  applause." 

"The  plays  of  Shakespeare,"  said  "Me,"  "are  less 
calculated  for  performance  on  a  stage  than  those  of  any 
other  dramatist  whatever." 

"Rubbish!"  I  cried. 

"I  am  sitting  on  Charles  Lamb,  and  I  know  what  I 
am  talking  about,"  said  "Me."  "Listen: 

I  confess  myself  utterly  unable  to  appreciate  that 
celebrated  soliloquy  in  'Hamlet'  beginning,  'To  be  or 
not  to  be,'  or  to  tell  whether  it  be  good  or  bad  or  indif- 
ferent. It  has  been  so  handled  and  pawed  about  by 
declamatory  boys  and  men,  and  torn  so  inhumanly  from 
its  living  place  and  principle  and  continuity  in  the 
play  rill  it  is  become  to  me  a  perfect  dead  member." 

"Nonsense!"  cried  I.  "Lamb  might  just  as  well 
have  said  that  because  a  preacher  bored  him,  or  his  roof 
leaked,  or  his  dinner  was  ill  prepared,  that  sermons  shall 
not  be  preached,  houses  lived  in,  nor  food  eaten;  or  that 
because  painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  writing  were 
at  one  period  undeveloped  and  imperfect,  all  of  those 
arts  should  have  been  forthwith  abandoned.  The  art 
of  expression  was  no  doubt  faulty  in  his  time,  and  is  by 
no  means  perfect  yet.  But  that  is  a  poor  reason  why 
it  should  no  longer  be  cultivated.  It  would  be  as  un- 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  381 

reasonable  for  us  to  assert  that  because  Lamb's  own 

farce,  'Mr.  H ,'  was  such  a  ghastly  failure  that  he 

himself  hissed  it,  there  shall  be  no  more  good  humor 
while  the  world  wags. 

"It  is  distressing  that  the  schoolboy  and  the  ranters 
made  so  fearsome  an  impression,  but  it  is  they  who 
murdered  Shakespeare  who  should  be  murdered;  not 
the  art  of  acting  that  should  be  strangled. 

"It  is  deplorable  that  Garrick's  harlequin  pose  on  his 
tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey — which  pose  was,  of  course, 
the  sculptor's  choice,  not  Garrick's — should  have  ir- 
ritated Lamb;  but  it  is  even  more  lamentable  that  Lamb 
should  have  lambasted  Garrick  concerning  performances 
which  he  admitted  he  had  never  witnessed." 

My  vehemence  appeared  to  make  no  impression  upon 
"Me,"  who  continued  obstinately: 

"  When  such  speeches  as  Imogen  addresses  to  her  lord 
come  drawling  out  of  the  mouth  of  a  hired  actress " 

"Why  hired?"  said  I.  "Why  hired  any  more  than 
was  Lamb  himself  hired  as  a  government  clerk,  or  as  a 
clergyman  is  hired,  or  an  admiral,  or  a  general,  or  a 
prime  minister,  or  a  bishop,  or  a  king?  Are  not  all  of 
those  paid  for  their  services  ?" 

"Acting  is  not  an  art!"  said  "Me." 

"Really,"  said  I,  "you  are  a  little  prig." 

"Abuse  is  no  argument,"  said  "Me." 

"You  repeat  the  cant  of  the  critics,"  said  I.  "Look 
here — a  dictionary — Webster:  'Art.  The  fine  arts  are 
those  which  have  primarily  to  do  with  imagination  and 
taste,  and  are  applied  to  the  production  of  what  is  beau- 
tiful. They  include  poetry,  music,  painting,  engraving, 
sculpture,  and  architecture,  but  the  term  is  often  con- 
fined to  painting,  sculpture,  and  architecture.' ' 


382  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Well?"  said  "Me." 

"There  you  are,"  said  I. 

"But  it  does  not  mention  acting,"  said  "Me." 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  said  I,  "but " 

"As  I  remarked,"  interrupted  "Me,"  "acting  is  not 
an  art.  Now,  poetry " 

"The  poet  must  have  an  interpreter,"  said  I. 

"Pooh!"  said  "Me,"  "the  actor  is  merely  the  instru- 
ment, as  a  fiddle " 

"Precisely,"  said  I,  "as  a  fiddle  to  the  master  violinist 
who  interprets  the  works  of  the  composers,  so  is  the 
body  of  the  actor  to  the  directing  mind  of  the  actor. 
He  executes  upon  himself  as  the  violinist,  the  harpist, 
the  pianist  executes  on  his  instrument.  The  difference 
is  this:  the  musician's  instrument  is  made  by  the  hand 
of  man,  the  actor's  instrument  is  made  by  the  hand  of 
God.  But — and  here  is  the  crux — the  actor's  instrument 
being  himself — his  own  limbs,  eyes,  voice — the  studied 
exercise  of  these  members  and  faculties  would  seem  to 
the  vulgar " 

"What's  that?  "said  "Me." 

"I  repeat  it,"  said  I.  "Vulgar!  To  the  vulgar  mind 
it  would  seem  that  the  trained,  premeditated,  selected, 
tasteful,  inspired  use  of  these  faculties  requires  no  art, 
no  method  of  *  doing  well  some  special  work/  to  quote 
from  Webster's  definition  of  art  again." 

Said  "Me":  "Any  one  can  walk  and  talk  and  look 
and  gesticulate." 

"True,"  said  I,  "any  one  can  do  so  in  nature,  but 
any  one  cannot  do  so  with  premeditated  art." 

Said  "Me":  "I  used  to  do  it  when  I  played  Indians." 

"There  you  are  wrong,"  said  I.  "You  actually  were 
the  thing  you  wished  to  be." 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  383 

"Nonsense!"  cried  "Me,"  his  large  head  shaking 
dangerously. 

"You  are  behind  the  times,"  said  I.  "Much  has 
been  perceived  since  you  became  a  daguerreotype. 
Listen!  I  read  from  Macaulay:  'Of  all  people,  children 
are  the  most  imaginative.  They  abandon  themselves 
without  reserve  to  every  illusion.  Every  image  which  is 
strongly  presented  to  their  mental  eye  produces  on  them 
the  effect  of  reality.  No  man,  whatever  his  sensibility 
may  be,  is  ever  affected  by  "Hamlet"  or  "Lear"  as  a 
little  girl  is  affected  by  the  story  of  poor  "Red  Riding- 
Hood."  She  knows  that  it  is  all  false,  that  wolves  can- 
not speak,  that  there  are  no  wolves  in  England;  yet 
in  spite  of  her  knowledge  she  believes,  she  weeps,  she 
trembles,  she  dares  not  go  into  a  dark  room  lest  she 
should  feel  the  teeth  of  the  monster  at  her  throat.  Such 
is  the  despotism  of  the  imagination  over  uncivilized 
minds '  " 

"You  mean  to  say,"  interrupted  "Me" 

"That  the  child  imagines  himself  to  be  the  character. 
The  actor  does  not.  The  ignorant  imagination  of  the 
child  persuades  itself  that  it  actually  is  the  character; 
the  trained  intelligence  of  the  actor  interprets  the  char- 
acter to  the  observer." 

"I  can  see  no  difference,"  said  "Me." 

"You  are  a  little  stupid,"  said  I. 

"Aha!"  said  "Me,"  "the  grown-up  attitude !  How 
refreshing  it  is !  While  I  have  been  on  the  shelf  I  have 
heard  many  people  discuss  acting,  actors  alone  con- 
sider it  an  art." 

I  really  wondered  how  I  could  ever  have  been  "Me." 
He  looked  like  an  impudent  little  tadpole. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  I,  "it  is  because  all  men  consider 


384  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

they  are  adept  at  walking,  talking,  seeing,  gesticulating. 
But  dancing  is  admitted  to  be  an  art — 'the  art  of  Terp- 
sichore,' 'the  poetry  of  motion' — because  few  persons 
can  dance  with  the  studied  grace  of  the  professional 
dancer.  Singing  is  called  an  art." 

"Of  course,"  said  "Me,"  "you  as  an  actor  desire 
acting  to  be  looked  upon  as  an  art." 

"Assuredly  I  do,"  said  I.  "And  there  is  the  difficulty. 
It  is  hard  for  the  player  to  speak  for  himself,  a  special 
plea  seems  a  specious  plea." 

"Your  calling  has  made  you  distressingly  flippant," 
said  "Me." 

Said  I:  "The  last  person  who  is  permitted  to  have  an 
opinion  concerning  the  art  of  acting  is  the  actor.  It  is 
admitted  that  he  can  know  nothing  about  it.  Still 
you  shall  hear  Coquelin,  the  French  comedian,  plead 
pathetically: 

In  the  first  place  what  is  art  ?  And  what  do  we  un- 
derstand by  it  if  not  the  interpretation  of  nature  and 
truth  ?  The  poet  has  for  his  material,  words;  the  sculptor, 
marble  and  bronze;  the  painter,  colors  and  canvas;  the 
musician,  sounds.  But  the  actor  is  his  own  material. 
To  exhibit  a  thought,  an  image,  a  human  portrait,  he 
works  upon  himself.  He  is  his  own  piano,  he  strikes  his 
own  strings.  He  moulds  himself  like  wet  clay.  He 
paints  himself.  It  is  not  because  the  actor  may  assume 
the  guise  of  a  'Frocisse'  that  you  refuse  to  yield  him 
the  same  consideration  which  you  would  accord  any 
other  artist.  No,  it  is  merely  because  he  assumes  a 
character  which  is  not  his  own  and  because  in  ceasing 
to  be  himself  you  feel  that  he  ceases  to  be  a  man.  But 
I  deny  that  there  is  degradation  since  there  is  no  true 
abdication  of  personal  dignity.  The  actor  may  indeed 
assume  a  disguise,  and  it  is  this  assumed  character,  not 
his  own,  which  receives  the  blows  and  mockery  if  need 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  385 

be.  But  this  disguise  which  he  will  doff  ere  long,  he 
enters  into  with  heart  and  soul,  with  all  his  mind.  It 
is  with  his  individual  self  that  he  makes  you  by  turns 
shiver,  weep,  or  smile.  The  noblest  terror,  the  most 
pitiful  tears,  the  tenderest  smiles.  He  does  not  abdicate 
the  throne,  he  reigns  supreme." 

"Of  course,"  said  that  wretched  little  "Me,"  "there 
is  a  comedian  pleading  for  his  bauble.  It  is  painful  to 
see  him  begging  for  consideration.  I  am  sorry  you  went 
on  the  stage.  I  wish  you  had  entered  the  church.  As 
a  revivalist,  now,  you  would  have  had  a  fine  opportunity. 
There  you  would  have  been  useful  as  well  as  ornamental." 

"Peace!"  I  cried.     "Listen  to  George  Henry  Lewes: 

I  have  heard  those,  for  whose  opinions  in  other  direc- 
tions my  respect  is  great,  utter  judgments  on  this  subject 
which  proved  that  they  had  not  even  a  suspicion  of  what 
the  art  of  acting  really  is. 

People  generally  overrate  a  fine  actor's  genius  and  un- 
derrate his  trained  skill. 

Another  general  misconception  is  that  there  is  no 
special  physique  nor  any  special  training  necessary  to 
make  an  actor.  Almost  every  young  person  imagines 
he  could  act  if  he  tried.  There  is  a  story  of  some  one 
who,  being  asked  if  he  could  play  the  violin,  answered: 
'I  don't  know,  I  never  tried.'  This  is  the  ordinary 
view  of  acting. 

Acting  is  an  art,  but  like  all  other  arts  it  is  obstructed 
by  a  mass  of  unsystematized  opinion  calling  itself  crit- 
icism." 

"Ha!"  said  "Me,"  "now  you're  attacking  the  critics. 
That  always  seems  to  me  to  be  taking  a  mean  advan- 
tage." 

I  paid  no  attention  to  this  interruption  but  warmed 
to  my  subject. 


386  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Of  Edmund  Kean,  Lewes  says: 

Kean  was  a  consummate  master  of  passionate  expres- 
sion. People  generally  spoke  of  him  as  a  type  of  the 
impulsive  actor.  But  if  by  this  they  meant  one  who 
abandoned  himself  to  the  impulse  of  the  moment  with- 
out forethought  or  prearranged  effect,  nothing  could  be 
wider  from  the  mark.  He  was  an  artist,  and  in  art  all 
effects  are  regulated.  The  original  suggestion  may  be 
and  generally  is  sudden  and  unprepared,  *  inspired/ 
as  we  say;  but  the  alert  intellect  recognizes  its  truth, 
seizes  on  it,  regulates  it.  Without  nice  calculation  no 
proportion  could  be  preserved.  We  should  have  a  work 
of  fitful  impulse,  not  a  work  of  enduring  art.  Kean 
vigilantly  and  patiently  rehearsed  every  detail;  trying 
tones  until  his  ear  was  satisfied,  practising  looks  and 
gestures  until  his  artistic  sense  was  satisfied,  and  having 
once  regulated  these  he  never  changed  them.  The  con- 
sequence was  that  he  could  act  his  part  with  the  pre- 
cision of  a  singer  who  has  thoroughly  learned  his  air. 
One  who  has  often  acted  with  him  informed  me  that 
when  Kean  was  rehearsing  on  a  new  stage  he  accurately 
counted  the  number  of  steps  he  had  to  take  before  reach- 
ing a  certain  spot,  or  before  uttering  a  certain  word. 
These  steps  were  justly  regarded  by  him  as  part  of  the 
mechanism  which  could  no  more  be  neglected  than  the 
accompaniment  of  an  air  could  be  neglected  by  a  singer. 
Hence  it  was  that  he  was  always  the  same.  Not  always 
in  the  same  health,  not  always  in  the  same  vigor,  but 
always  master  of  the  part  and  expressing  it  through  the 
same  symbols." 

"You  are  quoting  too  much,"  said  "Me"  impatiently. 

"I  tell  you  an  actor  can't  speak  for  himself,"  said  I. 
"I  must  confound  you  with  authorities.  Perception, 
selection,  arrangement,  execution:  these  are  the  steps 
of  the  artist  in  any  art.  These  are  the  steps  of  the  actor 
in  the  playing  of  his  part.  'All  artists  have  an  individual 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  387 

style,  a  manner,*  says  Lewes.  'It  is  a  fact,  little  under- 
stood by  imitators,  that  the  spots  on  the  sun  in  no 
wise  warm  the  world,  and  that  a  deficiency  in  light  and 
heat  cannot  be  replaced  by  a  prodigality  of  spots/  A 
certain  clever  mimic  had  the  good  taste  to  perpetrate 
a  burlesque  of  Henry  Irving  at  a  club  supper.  Irving 
complimented  him  and  said:  'Excellent!  excellent!  Ex- 
actly like  me.  Why  don't  you  play  my  parts?'  Why 
indeed?" 

"Me"  sat  there  blinking  at  me  like  Poe's  Raven — 
"never  flitting,  never  flitting,"  but  somewhat  silenced. 

I  continued:  "A  theatrical  manager  once  wrote  a 
volume  to  prove  that  acting  was  merely  a  collection  of 
tricks,  and  that  if  one  could  learn  all  the  tricks  of  all 
the  celebrated  actors  one  could  exhibit  or  teach  the  art 
to  the  multitude  with  exactness.  This,  of  course,  is  as 
though  we  should  select  all  the  mannerisms  of  all  the 
distinguished  painters,  and  exhibit  them  in  one  painting, 
or  the  styles  of  all  the  poets  and  combine  them  in  one 
poem.  'Not  from  without  in,  but  from  within  outy' 
speaks  the  artist.  His  mind  informs  and  illuminates 
his  medium,  not  his  medium  his  mind.  On  the  other 
hand,  we  should  surely  study  the  results  achieved  by  the 
great  actors,  the  means  by  which  they  secured  their 
effects,  just  as  one  studies  the  old  masters  of  painting 
or  the  giants  of  literature.  At  last  one  will  formulate 
a  style  of  one's  own,  as  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  relates 
that  by  practising  many  styles  he  found  himself.  The 
facets  of  individuality  are  infinite,  but  each  can  reflect 
nature." 

"Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity,"  said  the  wretched 
"Me,"  who  was  leaning  up  against  a  Bible.  "Tell  me, 
and  speak  the  truth,  why  do  people  go  on  the  stage?" 


388  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

"Some  to  make  a  living,  as  men  preach  or  write  books 
or  sell  pickles;  some  who  are  drawn  to  the  drama  as  a 
means  of  expression." 

"Expression  of  what?"  yawned  "Me." 

"Of  themselves,  their  conception  of  beauty,  of  life, 
of  the  ideal,  as  a  vent  for  the  imagination.  As  one  sings 
idly  and  without  words,  or  dances  without  skill,  or  scrib- 
bles verse,  the  spirit  within  is  seeking  an  outlet,  trying 
to  say  something.  With  one  it  is  a  whistle,  with  another, 
a  symphony;  with  one,  a  mud  pie,  with  another  a  cathe- 
dral. One  skips,  another  evolves  a  ballet;  one  shouts 
for  joy  or  abandons  himself  to  anger,  another  writes  a 
comedy,  a  tragedy,  or  tries  to  act.  But  this  acting  is 
no  joke.  For  the  journeyman  who  merely  wants  wages, 
and  has  no  further  vision  than  so  much  a  week,  all  is 
well;  but  for  the  one  who  is  called,  and  who  is  ready  to 
challenge  fortune,  that  is  different.  I  do  not  mean  that 
to  be  careless  of  payment  necessarily  indicates  a  great 
artist,  but  that  the  pleasure  experienced  in  artistic  ex- 
pression is  so  great  that  other  payment  is  entirely  sec- 
ondary. For  my  part,  although  I  had  to  make  a  living 
out  of  acting,  I  was  never  concerned  about  financial 
results.  I  had  a  fine  time  doing  my  work;  I  was  en- 
tirely engrossed  in  it;  it  quite  possessed  me  every  waking 
hour.  To  practise  my  calling  in  all  humility  and  to 
feel  myself  become  more  expert,  little  by  little,  day  by 
day,  became  a  passion  with  me,  and  at  last  to  seek  ex- 
pression in  the  great  roles  of  Shakespeare  was  a  gratifica- 
tion far  beyond  the  possession  of  wealth.  I  can  look 
back  on  all  the  days  of  labor,  and  experiment,  and  prep- 
aration, and  effort,  as  on  a  kind  of  delightful  intoxica- 
tion; and  I  say  that  such  passionate  obsession,  and  joy- 
ful abandonment  and  unselfish  slavery,  belong  to  art 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  389 

alone.  Here  one  lives  in  the  realm  of  the  imagination 
with  the  poets  and  the  seers  and  treads  upon  the  clouds. 
The  cant  that  Shakespeare  is  not  to  be  acted  is  non- 
sense. The  pleasure  obtained  from  reading  is  not  com- 
parable to  the  pleasure  experienced  in  actually  imper- 
sonating. The  imagination  is  exercised  to  an  even  greater 
extent  in  acting  than  in  mere  contemplation.  I  am  not 
speaking  of  the  gratification  of  the  auditor,  that  is  a 
separate  matter.  I  mean  the  experience  of  the  player. 
A  man  who  can  act,  experiences  an  added  exaltation 
over  and  above  that  of  the  simple  reader.  To  passively 
absorb  the  poet's  thought  is  a  small  satisfaction  com- 
pared to  the  elation  of  acting  greatly  a  great  part, 
and  conducting  the  emotions  of  an  assembly  as  one 
conducts  a  vast  orchestra.  Shakespeare's  plays  were 
written  by  an  actor  for  actors  to  act.  They  are  an  in- 
spiration to  the  player,  and,  well  acted,  an  inspiration 
to  the  auditor.  Here  is  enough  reason  that  a  man  or 
woman  of  intellect  should  go  on  the  stage.  To  love 
Shakespeare  is  to  love  the  best  in  literature.  To  im- 
personate Shakespeare's  heroes  and  heroines  is  to  enjoy 
the  poet  to  the  greatest  possible  extent.  Similar  grati- 
fication is,  of  course,  obtainable  from  minor  dramatists 
in  a  minor  degree.  Most  actors  would  play  Shakespeare 
if  they  could.  The  reasons  for  not  doing  so  are  the 
amount  of  labor  and  study  demanded,  for  one  must  give 
the  best  or  fail;  and  the  fact  that  much  must  be  sacri- 
ficed and  foregone  while  striving  for  success.  Failure 
must  be  faced  and  endured  and  excellence  secured  by 
slow  degrees;  confidence  in  one's  ability  established  by 
many  repetitions  of  great  excellence;  every  resource  of 
nature  and  art  garnered  with  untiring  industry  and  love 
and  care.  All  are  not  willing  to  wait  and  serve.  There 


390  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

are  minor  prizes  more  easily  won.  In  these  days,  too, 
an  actor  with  this  ambition  must  back  himself  financially. 
When  Booth  and  the  Shakespearians  of  his  day  went 
forth,  an  ambitious  player  could  adventure  without 
serious  expense.  He  could  easily  engage  a  company  of 
eager  companions,  knights  errant,  each  one  of  whom 
would  provide  his  own  costumes  to  the  last  detail.  All 
scenery  and  properties  were  supplied  by  the  theatres  of 
each  city  wherein  he  was  to  play;  the  expense  of  trans- 
portation was  limited  to  railway  fares.  Bad  business 
entailed  small  loss.  Therefore,  in  those  days,  we  had 
many  actors  and  actresses  exploiting  the  plays  of  Shake- 
speare. Now,  when  he  who  would  impersonate  the  Shake- 
speare heroes  must  provide  costumes  for  a  company  of 
principals  and  supernumeraries  numbering  a  hundred 
or  more,  purchase  an  elaborate  scenic  equipment  for 
each  play,  carry  a  staff  of  expert  stage-hands,  carpenters, 
lightmen,  property  and  wardrobe  people,  and  musicians, 
the  venturing  forth  in  Shakespeare  is  a  serious  invest- 
ment. No  manager  will  back  an  actor  in  such  an  enter- 
prise, and  how  shall  the  actor  try  his  wings  and  prove 
his  worth  in  the  great  roles  ?  He  must  win  the  sinews  of 
war  elsewhere  and  then  back  himself.  This  was  my 
plan.  For  years  I  worked  at  modern  comedy  and  farce 
and  melodrama  and  romantic  drama  to  save  the  money 
wherewith  to  produce  *  Hamlet/  When  I  announced 
this  intention  three  or  four  witty  things  were  said,  and 
my  well-wishers  looked  extremely  miserable.  The  ex- 
pense of  running  my  company  with  a  repertoire  of  nine 
Shakespeare  plays  was  between  four  thousand  and  five 
thousand  dollars  a  week  before  I  myself  could  make  a 
penny  of  profit.  Each  new  production  would  cost  be- 
tween fifteen  and  twenty  thousand  dollars." 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  391 

"Nobody  is  questioning  you  on  this  subject,"  sighed 
"Me  "wearily. 

"I  am  talking  to  myself,"  I  replied.  "A  national 
theatre  will  continue  to  be  a  dream  until  it  is  realized 
on  the  sane  and  simple  lines  of  supplying  the  stand- 
ard classic  drama,  Shakespearian  and  others,  to  the 
poor  and  uneducated  at  a  nominal  price.  Three  mil- 
lion dollars  would  build  a  national  theatre  in  Wash- 
ington. Endow  it  with  an  income  of  an  hundred  thou- 
sand a  year,  and  enable  it  to  produce  a  classic  repertoire 
for  the  benefit  of  the  multitude  at  an  admission  fee  of 
from  ten  cents  to  fifty  cents,  the  object  being  to  plant 
broadcast  an  understanding  and  love  for  the  best  in 
dramatic  literature.  Such  a  theatre  would  elevate  public 
taste,  educate  actors  in  the  noblest  exercise  of  their  art, 
and  hold  up  to  native  dramatists  a  perpetual  example 
of  form  and  style  and  standard.  This  company,  play- 
ing from  thirty  to  forty  standard  plays,  could  perform 
in  all  the  principal  cities  each  year  at  ten  to  fifty  cents. 
By  raising  public  taste,  attendance  at  other  good  plays 
would  be  increased,  a  school  for  fine  acting  and  oratory 
would  be  provided  in  the  national  capital.  The  poor 
and  the  uninformed  would  be  constantly  provided  with 
the  best  examples  of  drama  at  a  nominal  price,  or,  as 
Matthew  Arnold  expresses  it:  'It  will  not  try  to  teach 
down  to  the  level  of  inferior  classes.  It  seeks  to  do  away 
with  classes,  to  make  the  best  that  has  been  thought  and 
known  in  the  world  current  everywhere,  to  make  all  men 
live  in  an  atmosphere  of  sweetness  and  light  ...  to 
make  sweetness  and  light  prevail.' 

"If  some  such  plan  is  not  adopted  the  standard  drama 
must  die.  Actors  cannot  afford  to  practise  it;  managers 
will  not  risk  their  money.  This  drama  depends  for 


392  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

success  on  fine  acting.  Fine  acting  is  the  result  of  prac- 
tise and  cultivation  and  ceaseless  effort  to  train  and 
perfect  expression  of  voice,  gesture,  eye,  and  mind.  All 
the  scenery  in  the  world  will  not  set  before  you  the 
heroes  and  heroines  of  Shakespeare.  One  great  actor 
is  worth  all  the  paraphernalia  on  earth.  Let  us  have 
a  national  theatre  to  satisfy  the  hunger  of  the  poor,  not 
to  be  a  toy  added  to  the  superfluous  playthings  of  the 
rich.  All  the  precepts  in  the  world  cannot  teach  the 
art  of  acting.  One  must  act  to  learn  to  act,  as  one  must 
dance  to  learn  to  dance,  or  speak  to  learn  to  speak. 
Theory  is  useless  without  practise,  and  practise  can 
only  be  secured  on  a  stage  before  an  audience.  It  has 
been  said:  'In  the  theatre  those  who  can  act,  act; 
those  who  can't  act,  teach  acting/  This  may  not  be 
entirely  just.  But  it  is  certain  that  there  is  much  lead- 
ing of  the  blind  by  those  who  are  in  need  of  spectacles. 
The  national  theatre  shall  provide  a  school  where  every 
distinguished  native  and  foreign  star  shall  be  asked  to 
discourse  on  his  theory  and  practise,  as  in  the  Royal 
Academy  Schools  of  Design  in  London  each  month  a 
royal  academician  superintends  the  instruction  of  the 
pupils,  thus  giving  them  the  advantage  of  all  styles,  all 
experience,  all  methods  from  which  to  form  their  own 
conclusions,  and  adjust  their  own  vision  that  they  may 
perceive  nature  through  the  eyes  of  many  masters. 

"To  learn  how  to  think,  to  avoid  tricks,  to  express 
from  within  out,  to  steadily  and  patiently  labor  toward 
light  and  understanding  and  accomplishment — these  can 
be  acquired,  given  opportunity  and  instruction. 

"The  education  of  an  actor  in  his  craft  is  now  entirely 
a  matter  of  accident.  Years  are  wasted  in  extraneous 
endeavor,  in  waiting  about  for  an  opportunity  to  prac- 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  393 

tise,  in  doing  work  that  is  almost  worthless  to  the  partic- 
ular individual.  Personally  I  wasted  five  years  looking 
for  a  chance  to  grow;  five  golden  years,  from  nineteen 
to  twenty-four,  when  I  was  eager  to  work  each  moment 
of  the  twenty-four  hours  and  could  only  find  employ- 
ment which  was  but  slightly  helpful  to  the  purpose  I 
had  in  view.  When  at  last  I  made  the  opportunity  I 
craved,  after  waiting  twenty  years,  I  had  to  begin  to 
learn  all  over  again — new  methods,  new  expression,  new 
carriage — to  fit  me  for  the  work  I  had  now  to  do.  I 
had  acquired  so  many  wrong  ways  of  doing  the  thing 
that  it  was  time  to  cease  work  before  I  had  fairly 
begun. 

"It  is  most  interesting  and  romantic  to  read  of  the 
difficulties  encountered  and  overcome  by  Kean,  Irving, 
and  other  great  actors,  also  the  comment  is  picturesque 
that  obstacles  beget  solutions  and  prove  the  mettle  of 
a  man,  but  hearts  are  broken  at  this  game  as  often  as 
strengthened;  great  artists  are  slain  as  well  as  evolved 
by  such  a  struggle.  Who  would  not  have  had  Chatter- 
ton  and  Francis  Thompson  dealt  with  more  gently  by 
fate  ?  Might  not  Edmund  Kean  have  been  even  a 
greater  artist  than  he  was  had  evil  fate  not  wrung  from 
him  the  tragic  cry:  'If  I  succeed  I  shall  go  mad'  ?  Is  it 
not  sad  that  genius  cannot  be  planted  at  once  in  the  soil 
where  it  may  gather  to  itself  all  the  glory  of  the  earth  ? 

"I  read  some  time  since  that  a  French  painter,  having 
arranged  an  exhibition  of  his  works,  which  represented 
a  lifetime  of  endeavor  and,  contemplating  his  paintings 
on  the  night  before  the  exhibition,  was  suddenly  over- 
whelmed with  such  dissatisfaction  that,  seizing  a  knife, 
he  destroyed  every  canvas,  and  cried  out  that  he  must 
begin  to  learn  again.  'Ah !'  said  I  to  myself,  'if  I  could 


394  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

begin  again  now!'     How  is  he  fortified  who  perceives 
his  own  errors  ? 

"Said  the  physician  to  the  philosopher:  'You  have 
only  a  week  to  live.' 

"Ah!'  replied  the  sage,  'then  it  is  time  I  began  to 
study  Sanscrit.' 

"The  divine  fire  of  genius  cannot  be  ignited  at  will, 
but  the  weapons  to  be  wielded  by  talent,  and  which 
even  genius  must  keep  keen  and  bright,  may  be  shar- 
pened and  polished,  and  handled  with  skill  even  by  those 
who  are  not  inspired.  Harsh,  throaty,  or  nasal  voices 
can  be  made  musical;  vile  enunciation  can  be  made 
perfect;  awkward  bodies  and  limbs  can  be  made  grace- 
ful; restlessness  can  be  trained  to  repose;  even  taste 
and  tact  and  observation  of  color,  form,  and  sound  can 
be  quickened  and  cultivated.  These  transformations  in- 
dustry and  opportunity  may  accomplish.  These  the  na- 
tional theatre  can  supply. 

"Surely  Betterton  had  genius,  yet  Colley  Cibber  says 
of  him,  describing  his  exhaustive  care:  'The  least  syllable 
too  long  or  too  slightly  dwelt  upon  in  a  period  depreciates 
it  to  nothing,  which  very  syllable,  if  rightly  touched, 
shall,  like  the  heightening  stroke  of  light  from  a  master's 
pencil,  give  life  and  spirit  to  the  whole.' 

"Says  Shakespeare  of  the  dramatic  poet,  'Set  down 
with  as  much  modesty  as  cunning';  of  the  actor:  'Ac- 
quire and  beget  a  temperance  that  may  give  it  smooth- 
ness.' 

"'He  must,  therefore,  select  from  out  the  variety  of 
passionate  expression,'  says  Lewes,  'only  those  that  can 
be  harmoniously  subordinated  to  a  general  whole.  He 
must  be  at  once  passionate  and  temperate;  trembling 
with  emotion,  yet  with  a  mind  in  vigilant  supremacy 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  395 

controlling  expression,  directing  every  intonation,  look, 
and  gesture.  The  rarity  of  fine  acting  depends  on  the 
difficulty  there  is  in  being  at  one  and  the  same  moment 
so  deeply  moved  that  the  emotion  shall  spontaneously 
express  itself  in  symbols  universally  intelligible  and  yet 
so  calm  as  to  be  perfect  master  of  effects,  capable  of 
modulating  voice  or  moderating  gesture  when  they  tend 
to  excess  or  ugliness.* 

"  All  this  the  actor  must  *  acquire  and  beget '  'with  as 
much  modesty  as  cunning.'  We  may  not  be  born  to 
genius,  but  we  may  acquire  supreme  skill.  'The  second 
stroke  upon  the  anvil*  is  demanded  by  every  muse. 
The  flashes  of  lightning  which  Hazlitt  said  Kean  shed 
on  the  meanings  of  Shakespeare  are  as  much  the  prod- 
uct of  painstaking  labor  as  was  Keats's  blaze  of  inspira- 
tion which  suddenly  evolved  the  words,  'A  thing  of 
beauty  is  a  joy  forever/  from  his  first  draft:  'A  thing  of 
beauty  is  a  constant  joy/  The  cultivated  ear,  the  labor- 
ing mind,  the  restless  hand — these  from  imperfection 
find  perfection  out." 

"More  matter  with  less  art,"  said  "Me"  exhibiting 
an  aptness  of  memory  appropriate  and  irritating. 

"Hear  me!"  I  cried.  "Again  I  will  quote,  for  I  am 
aware  that  I  am  no  prophet  in  my  own  family.  Hear 
Robert  Ingersoll,  the  lovable,  the  wise,  the  liberator  of 
mankind,  the  advocate  of  happiness,  the  champion  of  the 
stage " 

"Who  was  he?"  muttered  "Me." 

"The  great  agnostic,"  I  replied. 

"What  is  an  agnostic?"  said  "Me." 

"In  this  case,  one  who  believes  in  the  Divinity  of 
Man,"  said  I.  "Hear  him  and  be  still: 

"  '  Most  people  love  the  theatre.     Everything  about  it 


396  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

from  stage  to  gallery  attracts  and  fascinates.  The 
mysterious  realm  behind  the  scenes  from  which  emerge 
kings  and  clowns,  villains  and  fools,  heroes  and  lovers, 
and  in  which  they  disappear,  is  still  a  fairy-land.  As 
long  as  man  is  man  he  will  enjoy  the  love  and  laughter, 
the  tears  and  rapture  of  the  mimic  world. 

"'Nearly  all  the  arts  unite  in  the  theatre,  and  it  is  the 
result  of  the  best,  the  highest,  the  most  artistic  that 
man  can  do. 

"'In  the  first  place,  there  must  be  the  dramatic  poet. 
Dramatic  poetry  is  the  subtlest,  profoundest,  the  most 
intellectual,  the  most  passionate  and  artistic  of  all. 
Then  the  stage  must  be  prepared,  and  there  is  work  for 
the  architect,  the  painter,  the  sculptor.  Then  the  actors 
appear,  and  they  must  be  gifted  with  imagination,  with 
a  high  order  of  intelligence ' " 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  "Me,"  "that  makes  me  laugh." 

"Silence,  image!"  I  cried.  '"They  must  have  sym- 
pathies quick  and  deep,  nature  capable  of  the  greatest 
emotion  dominated  by  passion.  They  must  have  im- 
pressive presence,  and  all  that  is  manly  should  meet  and 
unite  in  the  actor;  all  that  is  womanly,  tender,  intense, 
and  admirable  should  be  lavishly  bestowed  upon  the 
actress.  The  great  actor  must  be  acquainted  with  the 
heart,  must  know  the  motives,  ends,  objects,  and  desires 
that  control  the  thoughts  and  acts  of  men.  He  must 
be  familiar  with  many  people,  including  the  lowest  and 
the  highest,  so  that  he  may  give  to  others  clothed  with 
flesh  and  blood  the  characters  born  of  the  poet's  brain. 
The  great  actor  must  know  the  relations  that  exist  be- 
tween passion  and  voice,  gesture  and  emphasis,  ex- 
pression and  pose.  The  great  actor  must  be  a  master 
of  many  arts 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  397 

"'To  produce  a  great  play  and  put  it  worthily  upon 
the  stage  involves  most  arts,  many  sciences,  and  nearly 
all  that  is  artistic,  poetic,  and  dramatic  in  the  mind  of 
man 

"'In  the  dramatic  world  Shakespeare  stands  alone. 
Compared  with  him,  even  the  classic  is  childish 

"'The  great  dramatist  is  of  necessity  a  believer  in 
virtue,  in  honesty,  in  courage,  in  the  nobility  of  human 
nature 

"'No  one  has  ever  yet  seen  any  play  in  which  in  his 
heart  he  did  not  applaud  honesty,  heroism,  sincerity, 
fidelity,  courage,  and  self-denial;  never.  No  man  ever 
heard  a  great  play  who  did  not  get  up  a  better,  wiser, 
and  more  humane  man 

"'Only  a  few  years  ago  our  dear  ancestors  looked  upon 
the  theatre  as  the  vestibule  of  hell,  and  every  actor  was 
going  "the  primrose  way  to  the  everlasting  bonfire." 
I  have  lived  long  enough  to  hear  the  world — that  is,  the 
civilized  world — say  that  Shakespeare  wrote  the  greatest 
book  that  man  has  ever  read;  I  have  lived  long  enough 
to  see  actors  placed  with  the  grandest  and  noblest,  side 
by  side  with  the  greatest  benefactors  of  the  human 
race 

"'The  greatest  man  of  whom  we  know  anything  de- 
voted his  life  to  the  production  of  plays. 

'"The  basis  of  society  has  been  the  dollar.  The  lit- 
erary man  was  a  servant,  a  hack;  why  was  this  ?  He 
had  no  money. 

"'Mozart  was  forced  to  eat  at  the  table  with  coach- 
men, with  footmen,  and  scullions.  He  was  simply  a 
servant  who  was  commanded  to  make  music  for  a  pud- 
ding-headed bishop.  The  same  was  true  of  the  great 
painters,  and  of  almost  all  other  men  who  rendered  the 


398  MY  REMEMBRANCES 

world  beautiful  by  art  and  who  enriched  the  languages 
of  mankind.  Now  the  literary  man  makes  money. 
The  man  who  can  now  paint  a  picture  for  which  he  re- 
ceives from  fifty  to  fifty  thousand  dollars  is  necessarily 
respectable.  The  actor  who  may  realize  from  one  to 
two  thousand  dollars  a  night  or  even  more  is  welcomed 
in  the  stupidest  and  richest  society.  Many  people 
imagine  that  he  who  amuses  them  must  be  lower  than 
they;  this,  however,  is  hardly  possible/' 

Here  "Me"  opened  his  goggle  eyes — really  his  like- 
ness to  Poe's  Raven  was  revolting.  "The  stage  is  im- 
moral," he  mumbled,  "and  is  going  to  the  dogs." 

"Prophet!"  cried  I.  "Thing  of  evil !  Prophet,  photo- 
graph, or  devil,  listen ! 

"'I  believe  that  everything  in  the  world  that  tends 
to  make  a  man  happy  is  moral;  anything  that  bursts 
into  bud  and  blossom  and  leaves  the  fruit  of  joy  is 
moral. 

"'The  stage  has  taught  the  noblest  lesson,  the  highest 
truth,  and  that  is,  it  is  better  to  deserve  without  receiv- 
ing than  to  receive  without  deserving,  better  to  be  the 
victim  of  villainy  than  to  be  a  villain,  better  to  be  stolen 
from  than  to  be  a  thief/ ' 

"I  have  just  been  thinking,"  said  "Me,"  yawning, 
"an  agnostic  means  a  man  who  doesn't  know." 

"Well?"  said  I. 

"Well,"  continued  the  blinking  "Me,"  "from  what 
you  have  just  read  I  am  convinced  that  that  definition 
is  correct." 

"Miserable  daguerreotype!"  I  cried — but  the  limp 
bundle  in  my  grasp  was  fast  asleep.  I  had  wasted  my 
wisdom. 

I  thrust  "Me"  back  in  his  frame  and  went  to  bed. 


I  TALK  TO  MYSELF  399 

'Lo !    Virtue  triumphs — Evil  dies, 
The  curtain  falls,  the  play  is  o'er. 
Behold  !  the  wisdom  of  the  wise, 
How  weak  true  lovers  love  before — 
See  laughter  loud,  and  tears  galore, 
Have  swayed  alike  the  fool  and  sage: 
When  lured  by  him  to  Fancy's  shore 
Who  'struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage.' 

'The  lights  are  out — 'mid  smiles  and  sighs 
The  throngs  into  the  darkness  pour — 
Into  the  land  of  memories 
Fade  tales  of  Fame  and  Fairy  lore; 
Of  love  and  longing,  peace  and  war. 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  his  rage  ? 
Is  he  a  shadow,  nothing  more, 
Who  'struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage'? 

'The  painter  from  his  canvas  cries 
To  this  new  day  from  days  of  yore. 
Do  all  the  minstrels'  melodies 
Die  with  the  life  from  which  they  soar  ? 
Parchment  and  stone  the  learning  bore 
Of  other  times  from  age  to  age — 
Shall  he  pass,  as  the  winds  that  roar, 
Who  'struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage'? 

'To  soothe  the  sorry  and  the  sore; 
To  be  the  weary's  hermitage; 
Shall  this  not  be  some  payment  for 
Who  'struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage'?" 


XLI 
UP  THE  CHIMNEY 

SAID  my  fairy  godmother,  who  is  responsible  for  these 
pages:  "There  is  no  talk  here  about  your  own  acting." 

Said  I:  "There  shall  not  be,  and  for  these  weighty 
reasons:  Acting,  if  it  speaks  at  all,  leaves  nothing  to  be 
said.  If  it  is  still-born,  the  less  said  of  it  the  better. 
Also  I  have  observed  of  the  greatest  actors  of  my  time — 
Jefferson,  Irving,  McCullough,  my  father,  Barrett, 
Tree,  even  Edwin  Booth — that,  although  they  con- 
tinued industriously  to  act,  many  persons,  in  the  theatre 
and  out  of  the  theatre,  who  were  not  acting  insisted 
that  those  who  were  acting  could  not  act;  so  that  the 
curious  condition  existed  that,  while  the  informed,  but 
unemployed  and  inactive,  proclaimed  that  the  acting 
ones  could  not  act,  the  uninformed  but  employed  and 
active  were  constantly  and  successfully  acting.  That 
is  to  say,  those  who  could  act  did  not,  and  those  who 
could  not  act  did.  I  have  ever  been  one  of  those  who 
cannot  act,  and  yet  do  act,  which,  being  admitted,  makes 
comment  on  my  own  acting  needless." 

"Still,"  persisted  my  fairy  godmother,  "you  must 
have  some  estimate  of  your  own  work." 

"I  have,"  said  I. 

"As  for  instance?"  queried  my  fairy  godmother. 
"What  were  your  best  achievements?" 

"King  Lear,  Coriolanus,  Cardinal  Wolsey,  Richard 
the  Third- 

"Stop!"   said  she.     "You  have  never  played  these 

characters." 

400 


UP  THE  CHIMNEY  401 

"Never!  "said  I. 

"How,  then,  can  they  be  your  best  work?" 

"One's  execution,"  I  replied,  "never  comes  up  to 
one's  conception.  It  is  so  with  a  sculptor,  a  painter, 
a  poet,  also  an  actor.  The  figure  that  imagination  bodies 
forth  so  far  exceeds  in  beauty,  truth,  and  grandeur  the 
actual  achievement  that  the  thing  done  is  puny  to  the 
thing  undone." 

"But  those  parts  you  have  played  ?" 

"Hideous  disappointments,  all  of  them!  Crippled  at 
birth,  bereft  of  half  their  promised  perfections,  never  to 
be  contemplated  without  regrets !  But  for  the  songs 
never  sung,  the  pictures  never  painted !  Yes,  I  must 
say  I  was  the  best  King  Lear  I  ever  heard  of;  the  best 
Wolsey,  Coriolanus,  and  Richard,  Othello,  lago,  King 
John,  Brutus,  Cassius " 

But  I  was  talking  to  the  air,  my  fairy  godmother  had 
fled  up  the  chimney. 

"The  swallows  fly  beyond  the  setting  sun 
Seeking  the  shelter  of  a  kindlier  shore — 
To  such  fair  haven,  now  my  work  is  done, 
I,  too,  would  steer — nor  venture  evermore — 
Arise,  dear  heart !  and  hasten — haste  before 
Our  wings  are  broken  and  our  weak  eyes  shun 
The  cloudless  skies — away !  away  !  where  none 
Shall  vex  the  quiet  that  our  souls  adore- 
Not  all  the  gaudy  trappings  we  have  worn — 
Nor  all  the  glitter  of  the  gallant  throng 
Whose  shouting  drove  our  argosy  along, 
Outshines  the  beauty  of  a  summer  morn— 
Outsings  the  music  of  the  throstle's  song 
To  some  sweet  solitude  at  evening  borne." 


LESSEE  AND  MANAGER 


JOSEPH  LEONARD 


WTho  public  arc  respectfully  informs  I,  that  this  Establishment  will  open  for  the 

DDH-AM-A/riO    SZE^SOINr, 

ON   MONDAY    EVENING,   NOVEMBER   FIRST,   1852. 


DRE5S  OIROLE  AWD  PARQtJETTE 50  CENTS 

THE  SECOND,  OR  FAMILY  OIROLE, 85  CENTS 

THIRD  CIRCLE  OR  GALLERY  .        .        . 25  CENTS 

PRIVATE  BOXES SINGLE  TICKET,  $1.00 


Doors  open  at  half-past  6 


•Curtain  will  rise  at  7  o'clock. 


•Th<'  llux  ortlr'0  will  he  open  from  10  o'clock  ovury  Mnrnliiir,  ;IIM|  Ticket*  cnn  IM<  priM-iiirtl  'inv  tlmf> 
i)vl;ii:  111)'  day.  Ticket*  mnv  be  purchased  fur  any  Pcrfoniiaiict'  ilurlng  tlic  ucck,  ami  ic«t*  srcim-d.  No 
M-iK'y  tnkon  nt  the  door.  Chock*  not  tnuwferabi«. 

'wSKASOS  TK'KKTS  MAY  UK  HAD  ON  AFI'UOATIOX   AT'TIIK  IJO.V 


Stage  Manoger  .  r  .......  Mr  J.  B.  Wright  Box  OlKco  Kc^or  ......  Mi  H.  \V.  Fenno 

Trea»urer  ...................  W.Ellison  DJnctor  of  Pantomimes  ........  K.  Stilt 

Deputy  Si  ago  Manager  /              H,      .  Mat-hini^t  ----  ................  J.T.Gill 

and  PnMnpter,        >    *  Co«  turner  ............  ....S.D.Johnson 

c  Artut  ......  .  ........  J.  E.  Hayes  Ballet  Muter  .....  .  .............  8.  Lake 

Leader  of  Orchestra  and  )        T  „  „  Properties  .  ...................  J.  IM  ring 

Director  of  Music,      £••**•  Holtowiy 

ACT  DROP.  DESIGNED  AND  EXECUTED  BY.'.-.-.-.'.'.'.-.'.'.MR  J.  E.  HAYES 


IVIIT. 


FIKST  AI'l'KAISANCr.   IN    AMI  KICA 


-  A  Nil  -- 


Topular  IKIKUMIHO,  fioni  tl.c   l.i'it.lon  TluMtros. 


Wlli  !•<•  pcrronnr.!  Ilic  Stcrllii};  Ci-m.-ily  hi  .',  H.-IK 


THE  HEIR.  .AT  LAW. 


WIIITTKS  1»Y 

Daniel  Dowlas,  Baron  Duberly, 

Mr  W.  H.  Curtis 

Dr  Panglos* Mr  Douglas  Stewart 

(From  HIP  Thontrr  Hoyal.  lUriuliiu'ium,  Ills  iii>t 
aj>i>mr:mci'  In  America  ) 

Dick  Dowlas Mr  Piior 

StetdfaU Mr  J.  M unro:> 

/••kid  Horacipun Mr  F.  8.  Buxton 

Kenrick Mr  S-  D.  Johr son 


:  DOLMAN,  TIIK  vorji(.i:i{. 

llrnry  Murelaml Mr  Aiken 

John. Mr  C>.  Johnnon 

Waiter  at  Motel ...Mr  Philips 

Waiter  sit  Blue  Boar Mr  Knowlton 

Cicely  ||omei|iuii Mr*  W.  II.  Smith 

Lady  Dut.erly Mrs  An-hbold 

(From  UIP  Lonilon  Tliratrr*.) 
Cnrolino Mr*  Prior 


Durlur  tin-  !-.» c-i;in;:, 


K1KHT  AlM'KAItANCK  IN  AMI  ItlCA 


-  AXH-— 


The  Popular  Dinmcnsp,  fium  11.  c-    l.oiMoii  Tli. 


Will  !•(•  perf'irme.l  tin-  Sterling  C.MP..-I!     ,:i  '.  m  i-.  < 


THE  HEIR.  AT  LAW. 

AV1MTTKN  11V  (iKOUlU:  COI-MAN,  TIIK  Yor.Vt.Ki:. 


Daniel  Dowlas,  Baron  Duberly, 

Mr  W.  H.  Curtis 

Dt  Punglns* Mr  Douglas  Stewart 

(from  tho  Theatre  Hoyal.  IMnnlniilium,  Ms  tint 
a|i|>mr:uico  hi  America  ) 

Dick  Dowlas Mr  Tuc.r 

Steadfast Mr  J.  Munro-.' 

Zokicl  Homopun Mr  F.  S.  Uuxton 

Kenrick Mr  S.  D.  Johnson 


Ili-nry  Mori'land Mr  Aikeu 

John Mr  * ' .  Johnson 

Waiter  at  Hotel v Mr  Philips 

Waiter  at  Blue  Boar Mr  Kuowlton 

Cic«-ly  Homespun Mrs  W.  H.  Smith 

Lndy  DuV.erly Mrs  Are.hbold 

(From  tho  Loiiilon  Tlicatros.! 
Caroline ....  .Mrs  Prior 


Darin;;  tliu  KA  ciiin^, 

NATIONAL  THEATRE  WALTZ •  •  • FULL  ORCHESTRA 

COMPOSED  AM)  AKHANOKD  11 Y  Mil  J.  HOLLO \V AY. 

\A  TIONAL  MEDLEY  O I  Kit  Ti-HK ~. HI  HAS 

OVERTURE— "IL  PIR.iTA" HKLI.IM 

I'rtvlous  to  llii- 

i\r^v3 

Written  by  W.  O.  EATON,  Esq. . .  .\Vill  be  spoken  by  Mr  W.  M.  LEMAN. 

MEItLKY  D.  1  *CE (Pupil  nf  Mr  S.  Lake) MISS  I   I  v.\  )    IK)  it . l  ni> 

POLISH  DANCE MAD'LLE  FALSER 

To  con.-1'.iile  willi  tti.-  Aihnlrvd  Kar.  o,  .-inttli.! 

PCI 

W1UTTEN  liY  J.  M.  MOItTON.   KSij. 

Squire  Fallow  field. . . . .  .Mr  W.  II,  Curtis     Mis  Chesterton. .  .(1st  appcaiancc  in 

Major  Frankman Mi  V.  Hayes  Boston) Miss  Bertha  Lewis 

Peter  Paternoster MrS.  D.  Johnson     Luey .....'  Ut  appearance  in  Boston) 

John  Dobbs Mr  Douglas  Stewart  I  Miss  Cornelia  Jefferson 

John Mr  G.  Johnson  | 

CT Engagements  hmrc  been  nude  with  EIVIUVENT  STARK,  who  will  appear 
dating  the  8ea«on 

•vAn  rltk-lrnt  Police  will  be  always  attached  to  the  KMnMlihrncnt.     Tho  Home  will  i.p  wrllxannnl 
«Md  reaUiaUd.    Kntrancct  anil  KxlUare  numrrou*.  c  »nvcnlrnt  and  «rparmi>  to  every  part  oflhr  Houw. 

NOTICK.-AH  l'rr»on«  «r«  rrqor«to4  not  to  deliver  any  article  for  the  Theatre  without  mi  Order  n>ued 
by  the  3ta««  Manacer  or  TreMurer. 

NOTICK.    Oant««and  Dover 8tr««t.  Oambrldce.  Roxbiirv,  Charliitown  and  Sooth  Uottou  Umnlbuaira 
wlUbcIn  •ttmdancv  at  th«-  cloee  of  the  Perfttcmancc  t"  .  <jnvrr  PaawDKen  to  the  above  plocr*. 
«rr>«vtng>rTrate<brOUCaa»k«M(e  will  leave  *tl  4pa*tll  Kv.-rr  Kvenlog,  (i-xcept  SatnrJay§.)^» 
MwluB^  rrrM-MalMLUw'  UallJIng*,  i  •••m  r  <.•!  IK.»,tr>i  an.V  I  rrmoat  tMrrtU- "~" 


INDEX 


Abbey's  Park  Theatre,  225. 

Abyssinia,  King  of,  142. 

Academy  of  Music,  Baltimore,  272, 

273- 
Acting,  the  art  of,  381-387;   a  means 

of  expression,  388;  pleasure  in,  388, 

389;   Shakespearian  roles,  389,  390. 
Actors,   statute  of   1572  concerning, 

378;  education  of,  392-395;   Inger- 

soll  on  the  qualities  of  great,  396. 
Adams,  Edwin,  191. 
Adams,  Maude,  303-313;    her  keen 

criticism,  307-309. 
Adriatic,  the,  251. 
AH  Khan  Badahur,  135. 
Archer,  Belle,  296. 
Archer,  Herbert,  188. 
Armstrong,  274,  275. 
Art  and  Artists,   Captain  Stewart's 

definition  of,  21. 
Aspiration,  16,  17. 
Atkinson,  Captain,  219-222. 

Baltimore,  272-274. 

Barrett,  Lawrence,  179,  400. 

Barrie,  360. 

Belasco,  David,  294,  296,  358. 

Berntsen,  Mina,  233. 

Betterton,  394. 

Bettoli,  Signor  P.,  129-132. 

Biggs,  the  butler,  26,  27,  77,  163. 

Birmingham,  6,  248. 

Birthday  party,  "Ta's,"  52-58. 

Bispham,  William,  338. 

"Blesseds,  the,"  6,  85-93. 

Booth,  Edwin,  his  premonition  of  Mrs. 
Booth's  death,  147;  246;  announce- 
ment of  death  of,  258;  photograph, 


332;  genius,  333;  asked  to  be  god- 
father to  E.  H.  Sothern,  333,  334, 
336;  his  impersonation  of  Hamlet, 


337;    letter  to  William   Bispham, 

338;  373,  39°,  4°o. 
Boston,  235-247,  363. 
Boston  Museum,  224,  227,  229,  230, 

237,  238,  240,  363. 
Boston  Museum  Company,  230,  236, 

238. 


Boucicault,  Dion,  156,  179. 

"Box  and  Cox,"  299. 

Brooklyn,  273. 

Brooks,  Bishop,  244,  246. 

Brown,  Mr.,  231. 

Bryant,  Dan,  182,  185. 

Buckstone,  Mr.,  174,  175. 

Buffalo  Bill,  301. 

Bunce,  Frank,  293,  297,  298,  334. 

Burgett,  Gus  and  Tillie,  86-88,  90. 

Burton,  Lady,  her  life  of  Sir  Richard 
Burton,  136-141;  Burton's  mes- 
meric power  over,  140;  her  mar- 
riage foretold  by  gypsy,  141;  reap- 
pearance after  death,  141. 

Burton,  Sir  Richard,  affection  of  Cap- 
tain Stewart  for,  136;  creed  and 
motto  of,  137;  tributes  to,  137- 
139;  his  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  138; 
journey  to  Harrar,  138;  influence 
on  Captain*Stewart,  140;  mesmeric 
powers  of,  140;  ability  to  read 
hands,  141;  love  of  children,  141; 
his  favorite  books,  142;  verses  to 
fame  written  by,  143 ;  love  of  jok- 
ing, 143- 

Butcher  boy,  the,  1 8,  19. 

Byron,  Henry  J.,  199. 

Cain  and  Abel,  29. 

"Called  Back,"  275. 

Cantellabiglie,  184,  187. 

"Cedars,  The,"  garden  at,  86. 

"Ceiling  people,"  346,  347. 

"Celebrated  Case,  A,"  358,  359. 

Century  Magazine,  338. 

Charley,  Uncle,  96,  97. 

Charter  House,  London,  299. 

Chatterton,  393. 

Chicago,  256,  275,  276. 

"Chinese  Gordon,"  see  C.  G.  Gordon. 

Chivey,  Squire,  196. 

Cibber,  Colley,  394. 

Clapp,  Mr.,  230. 

Clarke,  John  S.,  92,  93. 

Clarkson,  Mr.,  283. 

Claxton,  Kate,  178. 

Clothes,  influence  of,  32-42. 


403 


4o4 


INDEX 


Cocos  Island,  King  of,  126. 

Coghlan,  Charles,  283. 

Coleman  House,  the,  362. 

Collectors,  335. 

Cone,  178. 

Congreve,  379. 

Connor,  Mr.,  345. 

Conried,  Mr.,  311-313. 

Contemplation,  65-74. 

Cook,  George  Frederick,  236. 

Cooks,  278. 

Copeland,  Harry,  179. 

Coquelin,  quoted,  384,  385. 

Costumes,  252. 

Couldock,  Mr.,  177,  264-266. 

Coulter,  Frazer,  277. 

Craeger,  344. 

"Crushed,"  274. 

"Crushed  Tragedian,  The,"  selection 
of  a  type  for,  199,  200;  how  the  cos- 
tume was  secured,  200-206. 

Cushman,  Charlotte,  335. 

"Cymbeline,"  259. 

"Damon  and  Pythias,"  253. 

"Dancing  Girl,  The,"  363. 

Darwin,  377. 

Dauvray,  Helen,  277,  293. 

Davenport  Brothers,  339. 

"David  Garrick,"  192-198. 

Davis,  Richard  Harding,  301. 

De  Beringhen,  252. 

"Deep  grief  is  still,"  poem,  31. 

Derby,  Lord,  137. 

Detroit,  252,  256. 

Devonshire,  the  house  in,  90. 

Dickens,  Charles,  349. 

Dillingham,  Charles,  363. 

Dinner-party,  practical  joke,  184-187. 

Dogs,  Death  and  Trap,  293,  295,  297. 

"Don  Quixote,"  poem,  134. 

Doran's  "Their  Majesties'  Servants," 

378. 

D'Orsay,  Count,  187. 
Douglas,  Annie,  276. 
Dramatists,  Elizabethan,  379;  Inger- 

soll  on,  397. 

"Duke's  Motto,  The,"  236,  239. 
Dunchurch,  94;  the  school  at,  95-100, 

105;  the  Tuck  Shop  at,  96. 
Dundreary,  Lord,  85,  172-177,  241, 

328. 

Earp,  the  barber,  222-224,  228. 
Edward,  King,  341,  361. 
Empire  Theatre,  359. 


Fairy-godmother,  3,  6-9,  322,  325, 
400. 

"Fame  pointed  to  a  grisly  shore," 
poem,  143. 

Farnie,  270,  271. 

"Favette,"  277. 

Fergus  I,  128. 

Field,  Mr.,  224,  239. 

Fife  House,  London,  136. 

Fisher,  Mrs.,  boarding-house  kept  by, 
224,  232,  239. 

Fishing  excursions,  91,  248-250,  290, 
368,  369. 

Fitzaltamont,  De  Lacy,  199,  200. 

Flockton,  Charles  P.,  personality  of, 
314;  a  great  horseman,  315; 
method  of  ordering  provisions,  315, 
316;  dinner  cooked  by,  317;  the 
accident  to,  in  "The  Victoria 
Cross,"  318;  self-sacrificing  devo- 
tion to  friend,  318-320;  321. 

Florence,  William  J.,  325,  368. 

"Flying  Dutchman,  The,"  315. 

"Flynn  of  Virginia,"  191,  192. 

Forrest,  Edwin,  257,  335. 

Forsyth,  Kate,  256. 

Fort,  Mr.,  272. 

Fortunate  Islands,  the,  23. 

Freeling,  96,  97. 

French  &  Son,  173. 

Friendship,  370. 

Frith,  W.  P.,  198. 

Frohman,  Charles,  last  words  of,  358; 
letters  from,  358,  360;  illness,  359; 
contracts  made  with,  361-365;  crit- 
icism of  performance  of  Shakespeare 
roles,  364;  sound  business  princi- 
ples of,  365-367;  sincere  tributes 
to,  367. 

Frohman,  Daniel,  seeking  an  engage- 
ment with,  260-264;  produces 
"The  Highest  Bidder,"  292-300; 
"Lettarblair,"  323-326;  "If  I 
Were  King,"  328, 329;  333, 361-365. 

Gaiety  Theatre,  London,  299. 
Garden  Theatre,  New  York,  325. 
Garrick,  David,  shoe-buckles  belong- 
ing to,  198,  341,  345;  walking-stick, 

341,345;  38i. 
Gatti's  restaurant,  22. 
Gautier,  Theophile,  quoted,  139. 
Georgina,  173. 
"Gladiator,  The,"  254. 
Globe,   London,    account   of   Captain 

Stewart's  encounter  with  a  ghost, 

129-132. 


INDEX 


405 


"Gods  of  yesteryear  are  fled,  The," 

poem,  82-84. 

Golden  Square,  London,  210. 
Gordon,    Charles   George    ("Chinese 

Gordon"),  17,  119;  home  for  boys 

founded    by,    141;     contempt    for 

death,  142;   143. 
Gramercy  Park  Hotel,  218,  222. 
Greenock,  196. 
Gregory,  Captain,  277. 
Grief,  stillness  of,  28,  29. 
Grossman,  Mrs.,  334. 

Haidar  Indians,  123-127,  135. 
Halifax,  Nova  Scotia,  148,  152-160. 
"Hamlet,"  332,  337,  364,  370,  380, 

39°- 
Hamlet  (the  character),  306,  332,  333, 

337- 

Hammerton,  Jack,  295-298. 
Hardcastle,  Miss,  155. 
Hare  and  the  tortoise,  the,  14,  19. 
Harrar,  Sir  Richard  Burton's  journey 

to,  138. 

Harris,  Doctor  F.  A.,  369. 
Harrison,  Alfred  A.,  95,  97,  99. 
"Hasty  Pudding  Club,"  the,  237. 
Hate,  stillness  of,  29-31. 
Haworth,  Joseph,  238,  239,  272. 
Haymarket  Theatre,  London,  85,  92, 

94,  167,  174,  175,  210. 
"Hazel  Kirke,"  264. 
Hazlitt,  395. 
Heatherly's  school  of  painting,  209, 

210,  213. 

"Heir-at-Law,  The,"  224,  231. 
Henderson,  Alexander,  270. 
Herald,  the  New  York,  172. 
Hermit,  the,  3,  4,  332. 
"Highest  Bidder,  The,"  293-299,  361, 

362. 

Hook,  Theodore,  187. 
Horticultural  Hall,   Boston,   fair  in, 

246. 

Howard  Athenaeum,  224,  232. 
Howard,  Bronson,  277,  362. 
Hugh,  Uncle,  see  Captain  Hugh  Stew- 
art. 

"If  I  Were  King,"  328-330,  364. 
Imagination,  346-350,  383. 
Ingersoll,  Robert,  quoted,  395-398. 
Irving,  Sir  Henry,  314,  339,  366,  393, 

400. 
Isherwood,  scene-painter,  benefit  for, 

149-152;  his  speech,  150. 


Jefferson,  Charles,  89. 

Jefferson,  Joseph,  visits  E.  A.  Sothern 
at  Kensington,  89,  90;  account  of 
Lord  Dundreary,  172-174;  177, 
230,  246;  recommends  "Lettar- 
blair," 325;  400. 

"Jessie  Brown,"  156-159. 

Johannes,  Count,  199,  200. 

Johnson,  125. 

Johnson,  the  coachman,  79,  163,  164. 

Jokes,  practical,  182-187. 

Kean,  Edmund,  hooted  from  stage, 
23r».235,  236,  239,  240;  sword  be- 
longing to,  335;  a  master  of  expres- 
sion,  386;  393,  395. 

Keats,  395. 

Keene,  Laura,  171-173,  183. 

Kelcey,  Herbert,  323. 

Kensington,  89,  161,  165,  210,  341. 

Key,  Captain,  114,  115. 

Khartoum,  119,  123,  142. 

Kirke,  Dunstan,  264. 

Kitchen,  the,  10. 

Klanert,  James,  344. 

Knightsbridge  barracks,  112. 

Labertouche,  Mr.,  342. 

"Lady  of  Lyons,"  329. 

Lamb,  Charles,  332,  337,  380,  381. 

La  Tappy,  Monsieur,  209-215. 

Laughing  parties,  305. 

Laura  Keene's  Theatre,  171,  172. 

Lawrence,  Arthur,  342-344. 

Lee,  Phillip,  184-187. 

Leigh's  Academy,  209. 

Leland,  Charles,  274. 

LeMoyne,  294,  296,  297. 

Leonard,  Mr.,  224,  231. 

"Lettarblair,"  319,  322-328. 

Lewes,  George  Henry,  quoted,  385- 

387. 

Listen,  William,  341,  344. 
Litton,  Lettarblair,  322. 
Liverpool,  102. 
Lodge,  Sir  Oliver,  147. 
London,  85,  250,  270. 
"Lost,"  275. 

Love,  stillness  of,  29-31;  78-82. 
Lover's  Lane,  79. 

Low  Steamship  Agency,  E.  H.,  300. 
Lucius,  251. 

Lucknow,  the  relief  of,  156,  159. 
Lusitania,  the,  358,  361. 
Luther,  Martin,  379. 
Lyceum  Theatre,  292-298,  323,  334, 

362. 


406 


INDEX 


McCarthy,  Justin,  141,  328-330. 

McCullough,  John,  179,  191,  192,  244; 
plays  produced  by,  251;  252-255; 
illness  and  death  of,  256-259;  345, 
400. 

McGonegal,  Mr.,  258. 

McGregor,  Randall,  156. 

McVicker's  Theatre,  Chicago,  204. 

Mabbitt,  Mrs.,  279-284. 

Macaulay,  quoted,  383. 

Macready,  373. 

Madison  Square  Garden,  199. 

Madison  Square  Theatre,  264. 

Malaprop,  Mrs.,  246. 

Malvolio,  364. 

Mann,  Louis,  275. 

Mansfield,  Richard,  270,  271,  335. 

Margate,  91. 

Marlowe,  Julia,  359~36l»  363,  364- 

Marsh,  Fanny,  the  cook,  10,  52,  78, 
104. 

Marshall  &  Snellgrove,  174. 

Match-box,  mystery  of  the,  341-344. 

Maude,  Cyril,  275. 

Mauritania,  the,  159. 

Mecca,  Sir  Richard  Burton's  pilgrim- 
age to,  138. 

"Merchant  of  Venice,  The,"  364. 

Merrington,  Marguerite,  319,  322, 
324-328. 

Messenger-boy,  the  London,  299-302. 

Micklejohn,  Detective,  47-50. 

"Midget,  Mrs.,"  303-313. 

Miranda,  7-9. 

"Mona,"  277. 

Morton,  Madison,  294,  299,  301. 

"Much  Ado  About  Nothing,"  364. 

"Mutes,"  26,  27. 

Mysore,  Sultan  of,  135. 

National  Theatre,  Boston,  224,  231, 

232. 

National  theatre,  plea  for  a,  391,  392. 
Neilson,  Adelaide,  184,  210,  335. 
New  Orleans,  178,  179. 
New  Theatre,  the,  366. 
New  York,    182-184,    187,   272-275, 

278. 

Newburg,  135. 
Nursery,  the,  II. 

O'Connor,  John,  210,  211,  214,  217. 
'Oh,  such  a  little  while,"  poem,  321. 
'Oldest,  Mr.,"  303-313. 
'One  of  Our  Girls,"  277. 
'Othello,"  25 1,  257,  258. 
'Our  American    Cousin,"  first  pro- 


duction of,  171-173;  incidents  in 
history  of,  174-177;  great  success 
of,  175;  178,180,355. 

"Out  of  the  Hunt,"  270. 

Overall,  179. 

Pangloss,  Doctor,  224,  231. 

Paxton,  317. 

Pemberton,  T.  Edgar,  244. 

Peters,  47-50. 

"Pippins,"  240,  241. 

Players,  see  Actors. 

Players  Club,  236,  334. 

Plays,  366,  379,  380. 

Pointer,  the  coachman,  33,  34,  39,  40, 

52,  53,  103-105. 
"Police  Fund  Benefit,"  at  Baltimore, 

272. 

Policeman,  the  London,  32. 
Potter,  Paul,  317. 
Prayers,  27,  28. 

Prince  Edward  Island,  120,  321. 
"Prompter's  Box,  The,     199. 

Queen  Charlotte  Islands,  124,  126, 
I3S- 

Raleigh's  "Essay  on  Style,"  379,  380. 

Ramsgate,  88. 

Rangeley  Lakes,  the,  91,  368. 

"Rasher,"  59-64. 

Raymond,  John  T.,  91,  92,  148,  153, 

IS4,  179- 

Rebecca,  the  nurse,  14,  16,  19,  25-28, 
39-42,  70,  77,  101,  104,  105,  163. 

Reciting,  191,  195. 

Reece,  Robert,  294,  299-301. 

"Richard  III,"  255,  256. 

"Richelieu,"  252. 

Richelieu  (the  character),  257,  258. 

"Rip  Van  Winkle,"  89,  90. 

Robert  II,  128. 

Robertson,  Tom,  192. 

Roderigo,  251. 

Rogers,  Henry  M.,  369,  374. 

"  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  306,  364. 

Royalty  Theatre,  London,  268,  269, 
271. 

"Ruffian  Dick,"  see  Sir  Richard  Bur- 
ton. 

Ruggles,  James,  218-222. 

Running,  pleasure  of,  14,  15,  18,  20, 
22. 

Saint  Bartholomew,  hospital  of,  216. 
Saint  Charles  Hotel,  Baltimore,  179. 


INDEX 


407 


Saint  Paul's  Church,  Boston,  245. 

Sala,  George  Augustus,  348. 

Salvini,  Alexander,  315. 

"Sam,"  225. 

San  Vernanzio,  the  haunted  church  in, 
129-131. 

Sanger,  Eugene  B.,  300-302. 

Scene-painting,  210,  217,  218. 

"Scenes  and  Studies  of  Savage  Life," 
123,  124,  127. 

Scofield,  Mr.,  275. 

Seymour,  William,  239. 

Sfea  House,  Chicago,  275. 

Shackford,  Captain  John,  351-35$. 

Shakespeare's  plays,  364,  379,  380, 
381;  inspiration  to  player  and  audi- 
tor, 389;  cost  of  producing,  390; 

397- 

"She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  155. 

"Shenandoah,"  362,  363. 

Sheridan,  183. 

Sherman,  General,  255. 

Shy  lock,  364. 

Silverman,  Rabbi,  367. 

Simpson,  Doctor,  176,  177. 

Skull,  the,  331. 

Slaughter,  Walter,  268,  269,  275. 

Smiles's  "Self-Help,"  97. 

Smith,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Crucifix, 
248-250. 

Smith,  John  P.,  273,  274. 

"Smuggler  Bill,"  88,  89. 

Snelling,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  5,  17,  lot, 
104,  105. 

Snuff-box,  mystery  of  the,  344,  345. 

Sothern,  E.  A.,  love  of  children,  6; 
discovers  a  fairy  godmother,  6,  7; 
holidays  at  Ramsgate,  88;  an  en- 
thusiastic fisherman,  91;  takes  part 
in  minstrel  show  at  Margate,  92; 
manager  of  Haymarket  Theatre,  92; 
family  outings  with  J.  S.  Clarke,  92, 
93;  engages  a  cook,  94;  love  of 
hunting,  94;  marvels  at  son's  learn- 
ing, 101-103;  takes  theatre  in  Hali- 
fax, N.  S.,  148;  meets  with  financial 
disaster,  148;  undertakes  to  lecture 
on  the  drama,  148;  proposes  bene- 
fit for  scene-painter,  149-152;  be- 
sieged by  creditors,  153,  154;  Ad- 
miral Stewart  brings  relief  to,  154, 
155;  wears  Highland  officer's  uni- 
form as  Randall  McGregor,  156, 
and  is  embarrassed  by  large  head- 
piece, 158,  159;  a  somnambulist, 
161-170;  drops  name  of  Douglas 
Stewart,  171;  enlarges  and  im- 


proves the  part  of  Lord  Dundreary, 
172-174;  painstaking  genius  of, 
174,  198;  incidents  of  English  en- 
gagement in  "Dundreary,"  174- 
177;  member  of  stock  company  in 
New  Orleans,  178;  extracts  from 
letters  of,  178;  memoranda  found 
in  coat  pocket,  179-181 ;  some  prac- 
tical jokes  played  by,  182-187;  a^~ 
fectionately  remembered  by  many, 
187-190;  dislike  of  reciting,  191, 
192;  plays  scene  from  "David  Gar- 
rick"  at  dinner-party,  193-195;  a 
generous  critic,  195;  gives  son  first 
lesson  in  acting,  195,  196;  his  por- 
trayal of  David  Garrick,  197,  198; 
selects  type  and  costume  for  De 
Lacy  Fitzaltamont,  199,  200;  stud- 
ied for  ministry  and  took  up  study 
of  medicine,  216;  leaves  choice  of 
professions  to  sons,  216-218;  dis- 
putes with  James  Ruggles,  218- 
222;  disastrous  failure  in  1852, 
224,  225,  231;  letter  applying  for 
position  at  National  Theatre, 
Boston,  231;  plays  in  Howard 
Athenaeum,  232;  home  in  Boston, 
232;  lifelong  friendship  for  Mrs. 
Vincent,  232-234;  annual  visit  to 
Boston,  233,  240;  takes  wild  ride  in 
cab,  241,  242;  visits  poor  as  Grand 
Duke  Alexis,  242,  243;  lovable  per- 
sonality of,  243,  244;  goes  to  Yar- 
mouth on  fishing  excursion,  248- 
250;  death,  251;  study  of  magic, 
339,  340;  match-box  presented  to 
by  Prince  of  Wales,  341;  his  snuff- 
box, 344;  bronze  statue  of,  341, 
346;  many  friendships  of,  351; 
story  of  ball  and  children's  party  at- 
tended by,  352-355;  story  of  farmer 
and  wife  entertained  by,  355-357; 
368,  369,  400. 

Sothern,  Mrs.  E.  A.,  29-31;  rescues 
street  urchin  from  tormentors,  32- 
36;  85;  Admiral  Stewart's  offer  of 
help  to,  152;  slippers  embroidered 
by,  152;  faith  in  Admiral  Stewart 
justified,  154,  155;  plays  Georgina 
in  "Our  American  Cousin,"  173; 
adapts  drama  from  the  French, 
179;  224. 

Sothern,  E.  H.,  ambition  to  become  a 
hermit,  3,  4;  called,  "Goggles,"  3; 
earliest  recollection,  4;  school-days 
at  Snelling  Academy,  4-6;  influence 
of  fairy  godmother,  8;  makes  friend 


408 


INDEX 


of  an  enemy,  10-13;  passion  for 
running,  14,  15,  18;  idea  of  heav- 
en, 16,  17;  wins  a  race,  18,  19;  in 
the  art  gallery,  20-24;  considers 
suicide,  25;  learns  about  "mutes," 
26,  27;  prayers,  27,  28;  is  taken 
to  church,  29:  impression  of 
stillness  of  grief,  hate,  and  love, 
28-31;  inquires  about  equality, 
36-42;  his  brother's  birth,  45,  46; 
first  contact  with  disobedience,  59- 
64;  learns  about  the  music  of  the 
spheres,  65-74;  feels  pity  for  suf- 
fering of  others,  69-72;  inquires 
about  love,  78-81;  first  romance, 
87;  earliest  recollections  of  father, 
85-93;  holiday  at  Margate,  91,  92; 
school-days  at  Dunchurch,  95-100; 
receives  prize  for  drawing,  97;  first 
recollection  of  Captain  Stewart, 
113;  fascination  of  old  sea  chest, 
122,  132-134;  affection  for  Cap- 
tain Stewart,  143;  in  Halifax  har- 
bor on  Mauretania,  159;  nursed  on 
many  knees,  177;  birthplace  of, 
*?8>  179;  first  lesson  in  acting,  195, 
196;  story  of  seafaring  man's  en- 
thusiasm for,  as  Squire  Chivey,  196, 
197;  studies  French  with  M.  La 
Tappy,  209-215;  takes  lessons  in 
painting,  209-211,  213;  in  Spain, 
211,  witnesses  a  murder,  214;  given 
freedom  to  choose  profession,  216; 
tries  scene-painting,  217,  218; 
chooses  acting  as  profession,  223- 
225;  plays  the  cabman  in  "Sam," 
225-227;  joins  Boston  Museum 
Company,  227,  230,  236,  238;  mis- 
givings on  arrival  in  Soston,  235; 
at  Mrs.  Vincent's,  237;  meets  Wil- 
liam Warren,  238,  239;  plays  in 
"The  Duke's  Motto,"  236,  239;  re- 
ceives no  salary,  239,  240;  goes 
fishing  at  Yarmouth,  248-250;  re- 
turns to  America  with  John  McCul- 
lough,  251;  plays  in  McCullough's 
company,  251-256;  receives  news 
of  father's  death,  255,  256;  seeks 
engagement  with  Mr.  Frohman, 
260-264:  failure  of  play  written  by, 
272-274;  writes  a  love-song,  268- 
270,  and  receives  reward,  275;  in 
Chicago  after  discouraging  experi- 
ences, 275;  offered  engagement  in 
New  York,  275-277;  successful  in 
character  of  Captain  Gregory,  277; 
years  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  292; 


success  in  "The  Highest  Bidder," 
294-298;  introduces  messenger  ser- 
vice into  London,  298-302;  nick- 
named "Mr.  Oldest,"  303;  his 
laugh,  304-306;  plays  in  "Lettar- 
blair,"  322-328;  plays  "If  I  Were 
King,"  328-330;  finds  skull  in 
churchyard,  331;  Booth  unwilling 
to  act  as  godfather  to,  333,  334; 
sees  Booth  play  "Hamlet,"  333, 
337;  pride  in  ownership,  336;  me- 
mentos strangely  returned  to,  340- 
546;  entertained  by  Captain  Shack- 
ord,  351,  352;  refuses  offer  of  part 
in  "A  Celebrated  Case,"  359;  busi- 
ness transactions  with  Charles 
Frohman,  361-365;  in  Shakespear- 
ian roles,  364;  value  to,  of  friendly 
criticism  and  encouragement,  370- 
373 ;  estimate  of  own  work,  400, 401. 

Sothern,  Mrs.  E.  H.,  359-361,  363, 
364. 

Sothern,  George  (Sam),  birth  of,  45, 
46;  baby  language  of,  43-46;  helps 
solve  theft  mystery,  46-51;  has  a 
birthday  party,  52-58;  imaginary 
playmates,  347;  enjoys  "Smuggler 
Bill,"  89;  plays  "Rip  Van  Winkle," 
90;  at  Snelling  Academy,  101-105; 
at  Dunchurch  school,  97-99,  105, 
106;  no  dawdler  in  his  studies,  IOI- 
108;  brings  a  cook  from  England, 
278;  method  of  routing  opponent 
in  argument,  285-290;  enjoys  fish- 
ing, 291;  his  dogs,  293;  work  on 
"The  Highest  Bidder,"  295;  sug- 
gests sending  messenger  to  London, 
300-302;  receives  lost  match-box 
from  farmer,  343;  finds  statue  of 
father,  346;  contracts  for  "The 
Highest  Bidder,"  362. 

Sothern,  Lytton,  46-49,  85,  178,  196, 
224,  232,  342. 

Sothern's  Lyceum,  148. 

"Sothern's  Varieties,"  178. 

Spain,  211. 

Spies,  Mr.,  272. 

"  Spring-heel  Jack,"  161, 163-165, 170. 

Sproat,  G.  M.,  123,  127. 

Staples,  Caroline,  245,  246. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  387. 

Stewart,  Sir  Donald,  119. 

Stewart,  Douglas,  171,  183,  184,  231, 
248. 

Stewart,  Sir  Herbert,  119. 

Stewart,  Admiral  Sir  Houston,  148, 
152,  154,  155,  160. 


INDEX 


409 


Stewart,  Captain  Hugh  Robert 
Newburg,  15,  17;  on  art  and 
artists,  20-22;  his  philosophy  of  life, 
22-24;  tells  strange  tales  of  self- 
destruction,  25,  26;  on  gentle  and 
common  folk,  38,  39;  tells  about 
music  of  the  spheres,  65-68,  72,  73 ; 
talks  about  Cupid,  75-78;  about 
love,  78-81;  love  of  children  and 
distrust  of  older  people,  Hi;  his 
dog  and  horse,  in,  112;  plays  ship- 
wreck with  the  children,  113,  114; 
his  capture  of  Commissioner  Yen, 
114,  115;  home  of,  115;  dog-ken- 
nel and  dog-cart  invented  by,  115, 
116;  dexterity  in  packing  up,  116, 
118;  official  record,  117;  his  expe- 
dition to  rescue  "Chinese  Gordon," 
119;  illness  and  death,  120;  a  ver- 
itable Don  Quixote,  121;  photo- 
graph, 122;  sea  chest  of,  122,  132; 
extract  from  log-book,  123;  resi- 
dence among  Haidar  Indians,  123- 
128;  encounter  with  ghost,  129- 
132;  adventurous  life  of,  132,  133; 
ancestry,  135;  his  affection  for  Sir 
Richard  Burton,  136,  143;  influ- 
ence of  Sir  Richard  Burton  on,  140; 
solves  mystery  of  nightly  visitor  at 
Kensington,  166-170;  wrestles  with 
Captain  Atkinson,  218-222. 

Stoddart,  J.  H.,  148,  153,  154,  177- 

Sturtevant  House,  the,  259,  274. 

Sun,  the  Baltimore,  272,  273. 

"Suspense,"  179. 

Sutton,  Sir  Thomas,  299. 

"  Swallows  fly  beyond  the  setting  sun, 
The,"  poem,  401. 

"Ta,"  see  George  Sothern. 

Tame,     Sarah     ("Kluklums"),     the 

nurse,  43-45,  47-55,  IO5-i°7; 
"Taming  of  the  Shrew,  The,"  364. 
Taylor,  J.  G.,  270,  271. 
Teasle,  Lady,  246. 
Telepathy,  experiences  in,  147,  148. 
Theatre,  the,  business  of,  365,  366; 

national,  391,  392,  394;    Ingersoll 

on,  395,  396. 

Theatre  Royal,  Birmingham,  248. 
Thompson,  Francis,  393. 
Tippoo  Sahib,  135,  136. 
"Topsy,"  favorite  mare,  164,  169. 
"Trade,"  294,  299,  361. 
Trap,  the  dog,  takes  manuscript  to 

theatre,  293;   297. 


Tree,  400. 

Trinity    Church,    Boston,    231,    244, 

246. 

"Tristram  Shandy,"  III. 
"Twelfth  Night,"  30,  210,  364. 

"Victoria  Cross,  the,"  317,  318. 

Victoria,  Queen,  361. 

Vincent  Club,  246. 

Vincent  Hospital,  231,  244-247. 

Vincent,  Mrs.,  177,  224,  236;  honored 
and  loved,  230,  23 1 ;  lifelong  friend 
of  E.  A.  Sothern,  232,  233;  chari- 
ties of,  233-235,  242;  household, 
237;  introduces  E.  H.  Sothern  to 
Boston  Museum  Company,  238; 
has  an  amazing  adventure,  241, 
242;  receives  homage  of  friends, 
244;  death,  244;  hospital  as  me- 
morial to,  244-247. 

"Virginibus,"  252. 

Walcot,  Mrs.,  177. 
Wales,  Prince  of,  341,  342. 
Walker,  99. 

Wall,  Horace,  196,  199;  secures  cos- 
tume for  "Crushed  Tragedian," 

200-206. 
Wallack's  Theatre,  New  York,   153, 

156,  273. 
Warren,  William,  177,  230,  232;   idol 

of  Boston,   238,   239;    his  jubilee, 

244. 

Washington,  254. 
Washington  Square,  278. 
Weston,  Edward  Payson,  199. 
"What    music    wakens    the    drowsy 

noon?"  poem,  73. 
"When  cruel  Fate  or  weight  of  years," 

song,  269. 

White  Dog  Island,  123. 
"Who  struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage," 

poem,  399. 

"Whose  Are  They,"  272-274. 
Williams,  Fred,  323,  324. 
Wilson,  Katherine,  110-313. 
Windsor  Castle,  136. 
Winter  Garden,  New  York,  337. 
Wit  and  humor,  182. 
Wolf,  Ben,  368. 
Wycherley,  379. 

Yarmouth,  248-250. 

Yeh,  Commissioner,  114,  115. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-15m-8, '58  (5890s4)4280 


UCLA-College  Library 

PN  2287  S71A1 


L  005  757  461  8 


College 
Library 


PN 

2287 

S71A1 


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